Stella's   Fortune 

OR 

LOVE  THE  CONQUEROR 


BY 

CHARLES   GARVICE 

Author  of  "So  Nearly  Lost,"  "Lorrie,"  "Claire,"  "Her  Roosea*  ,ot 
"Elaine,"  "A  Wasted  Love,"  "A  Woman's  Soul,"  etc. 


M.  A.  D6NOHUE  &  CO, 

CHICAGO 


STELLA'S  FORTUNE 


CHAPTER  L 

RUINED. 

Then  I  saw,  as  in  a  vision, 

The  whole  world  stretching  with  eager  hands 

Towards  a  mystic  figure,  holly-crowned  and  rubicund, 

"Which,  from  its  torch,  scattered  on  all  the  earth 

The  fires  of  love  and  plenty. 

It  was  the  Spirit  of  Christmas! 

Christmas  was  approaching.  You  knew  it  from  a 
thousand  signs  and  tokens  beside  the  remarkably  distinct 
intimation  of  the  calendar  with  its  "twenty-fifth  of  De- 
cember" in  red  letters  and  its  "Christmas  Day"  in  Old 
English  type. 

Old  men  knew  it,  for  they  shook  their  heads  and 
grumbled  at  the  cold  and  the  weather. 

Young  men  knew  it,  and  they  smiled  at  forthcoming 
evening  parties  and  friendly  suppers. 

Young  women  knew  it,  and  joined  the  young  men  in 
anticipation  of  balls  and  other  opportunities  of  love- 
making;  and  the  schoolboys  knew  it,  and  smacked  their 
lips  as  dreams  of  plum-pudding,  pantomimes  and  Christ- 
mas boxes  disturbed  the  last  few  remaining  days  of  their 
school  term. 

Others  knew  it,  to  whom  the  approaching  time  of  mer- 
rymaking1, of  peace  on  earth  and  good  will  toward  men 
brought  no  visions  of  happiness  and  joy  to  come.  The 
poor  shivered  at  the  approach  of  the  jolly  king  and  re- 
membered that  for  them  there  Were  no  plum-puddings, 
very  little  peace  and  but  the  mockery  of  good  will. 


2135S33   ' 


9  Stella's  Fortune. 

Some  others,  high  up  in  the  social  scale,  were  as  little 
pleased  at  the  proximity  of  the  season  of  rejoicing. 

For  instance,  let  us  avail  ourselves  of  the  novelist's 
precious  privilege,  and,  taking  you,  kind  reader,  with  us, 
enter  unseen  the  library  of  a  grand  mansion  in  Belgravia, 

Though  we  had  entered  in  the  orthodox  and  ordinary 
way,  we  should  have  scarcely  been  heard,  for  wealth  had 
spurred  luxury  to  its  utmost,  and  the  feet  of  the  happy 
mortals  who  pass  the  threshold  of  Sir  Richard  Wild- 
fang's  town  house,  if  they  do  not  tread  on  roses,  Persian 
fashion,  make  as  little  noise  traversing  the  thickly  car- 
peted hall  and  still  more  luxuriously  covered  staircase. 

Footmen,  as  silent  as  the  statuary  which  flank  the 
painted  walls,  hover  to  and  fro,  ready  to  do  Sir  Rich- 
ard's will.  Grooms  and  coachmen  linger  with  hands  in 
their  pockets,  all  on  the  alert  to  saddle  or  harness  for  him 
Sir  Richard  Wildfang's  high-bred  cattle. 

The  very  air  seems  forced  into  this  special  service,  for 
it  is  perfumed  by  the  faintest  effluvia  of  a  Persian  scented 
lamp,  which  burns  day  and  night — its  small  flame  shut 
from  view — in  the  upper  corridor. 

From  this  and  a  hundred  other  signs  forced  upon  the 
notice  of  the  least  observant  it  might  be  presumed  that 
the  owner  of  all  this  wealth  was  a  modern  Sybarite,  a 
voluptuary,  and  a  lotus  eater  of  the  latest  approved 
fashion. 

Let  us  look  at  him.  We  find  that  Sir  Richard  is  young, 
handsome — stay,  is  there  much  of  the  beautiful  in  his 
compact  head,  dark,  thick  hair  and  expressive  eyes?  Is 
not  the  beard  a  trifle  too  sleek,  the  hair  a  little  too  dark 
and  the  eyes  somewhat  more  restless  and  evading  than 
those  features  should  be  to  reach  the  standard  of  beauty  ? 

It  is  a  mooted  question.  Some  of  his  friends  said  that 
Sir  Richard  was  handsome,  others  declared  that  his  face 
lacked  frankness,  and  his  eyes  especially,  that  bold,  open 
look  which  Englishmen  and  English  women  prize.  Sir 
Richard  himself  thought — ah !  there  again,  was  there  any 
man  living  who  knew  exactly  what  Sir  Richard  thought 
on  any  subject? 

On  many  he  said  a  great  deal.  Indeed,  Sir  Richard, 
for  a  young  man,  was  wonderfully  fluent  and  wordy,  had 


Stellafs  Fortune.  f 

fine  phrases  and  a  veneered  eloquence  ready  on  the 
shortest  notice;  but  perhaps  those  cynics  were  not  far 
wrong  who  declared  that  all  Sir  Richard's  words  were 
but  decoy-ducks  or  nest-sharers,  used  either  to  learn 
other  people's  thoughts  or  conceal  his  own. 

Sir  Richard  came  of  an  old  family — Wildfang,  the 
Merciless,  came  over  with  William,  the  Robber — and  Sir 
Richard  had  added  to  his  lineage  a  large  amount  of 
wealth — at  least,  so  report  says,  and  everybody  knows 
that  report  never  prevaricates.  He  was  the  owner  of  great 
merchantmen,  the  promoter  of  gigantic  monetary 
schemes,  the  proprietor  of  several  snug  things,  each,  so 
it  was  believed,  worth  a  fortune  in  itself.  His  name  was 
well  known  and  respected  on  'Change,  and  his  mercantile 
honor  irreproachable.  Of  the  honor  which  characterized 
his  private  life  and  pleasure  people  never  troubled  them- 
selves to  inquire. 

Sir  Richard  was  a  young  man,  and  wealthy,  and  that 
was  enough  for  the  Belgravia  mammas  and  thur  mar- 
riageable daughters  also.  Had  they  inquired  into  Sir 
Richard's  life  ten  chances  to  one  they  would  have  found 
it  blameless — rumor  seldom  settles,  raven  of  ill  luck  as  it 
is,  on  the  head  of  the  prosperous  man. 

"Sir  Richard  was  an  eminently  liberal,  benevolent, 
right-thinking  gentleman,"  said  the  world;  and  who. 
upon  examining  his  banker's  book,  would  have  said 
otherwise  ? 

"Man  has  two  characters,**  says  Talleyrand,  "the  one 
he  shows  to  his  friends  and  the  other  which  he  reserves 
for  himself." 

Let  tis  see  Sir  Richard  in  both. 

In  the  library,  or  Sir  Richard's  own  room,  as  it  was 
called,  he  himself  was  always  writing  and  reading.  There 
was  a  goodly  supply  of  books ;  there  were  maps  on  elab- 
orate stands ;  there  were  screens  to  shut  out  the  draught 
and  to  shade  the  light.  A  fire  burned  brightly  in  the 
ormulu  grate;  in  case  its  heat  should  scorch  the  delicate 
ofive  complexion  of  Sir  Richard  a  glass  screen  of  pressed 
ferns  and  seaweeds  was  placed  before  it.  The  lamps — 
there  were  more  than  one— were  exquisite  specimens  of 
modern  ornamental  art  One  near  him  was  shaded  with 
a  cool,  green-glass  cover,  which  threw,  notwithstanding 


6  Stella's  Fortune. 

its  coolness,  a  rather  disagreeable  tint  upon  Sir  Richard's 
face. 

But  it  did  not  matter.  No  ladies  ever  eritered  that,  his 
business  apartment,  and  few  men  for  whose  opinions  as 
to  his  personal  attractions  Sir  Richard  cared. 

On  the  table,  an  inlaid  one  with  numberless  secret 
drawers  and  snug  hiding  places,  were  piles  of  letters, 
heaps  of  account  books,  and  two  formidable-looking 
ledgers.  One  of  the  latter  lay  open  before  him,  and  his 
white  hand,  upon  which  scintillated  two  diamond  rings 
of  value,  traced  the  figures  down  the  column  or  copied 
them  into  a  smaller  book  beneath  his  other  hand. 

Has  the  reader  realized  the  luxury  and  comfort  with 
which  Sir  Richard  softened  even  the  hard  matters  of 
business  ? 

A  gentle  knock  at  the  door  evoked  a  sharp: 

"Come  in." 

A  servant  entered. 

"Mr.  Dewlap,  sir." 

"He  may  enter." 

The  servant  stood  aside  and  allowed  a  stout,  thickset 
man,  with  a  pale,  careworn  face,  rendered  restless  and 
acute  by  a  pair  of  keen  eyes,  to  enter. 

This  was  Mr.  Dewlap,  Sir  Richard's  confidential  man 
of  business,  if  the  title  is  not  a  misnomer,  Sir  Richard 
reposing  confidence  in  no  one. 

There  was  snow  on  Mr.  Dewlap's  overcoat,  and  he 
paused  on  the  threshold  of  the  superlatively  comfortable 
room  to  divest  himself  of  the  garment. 

"A  cold  night,  Sir  Richard." 

"Is  it?"  answered  his  master.  "Ah,  it  snows,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"Yes,  every  prospect  of  a  hard  winter,"  replied  Mr. 
Dewlap,  in  a  suppressed,  still  sort  of  voice,  which  changed 
to  a  grave  tone  when  he  next  spoke,  which  was  after  the 
servant  had  left  the  room  and  in  answer  to  Sir  Richard. 

"You  are  late ;  I  have  been  expecting  you  this  last  half 
hour,"  he  said,  in  a  cold,  imperious  way,  that  was  pain- 
fully acute  in  its  feigned  calm. 

"I  am  sorry,  Sir  Richard,  but  I  was  kept  waiting  at 
Lloyd's." 


Stella's  Fortune.  7 

"Ah!   you  have  been  there;  well?" 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  Mr.  Dewlap,  taking  the  chair  to- 
ward which  Sir  Richard  had  waved  his  white  hand,  "I 
am  sorry  to  bring  bad  news,  sir,  but  the  Arethusa  has 
come  to  grief;  the  fearful  storm  in  the  Baltic  has  sent 
her  to  port  with  nine  hands  lost." 

''Nine  hands!"  retorted  Sir  Richard,  sharply.  "Never 
mind  the  hands — the  cargo,  man,  the  cargo!" 

"The  cargo,  Sir  Richard,  is  entirely  ruined." 

Sir  Richard  leaned  back  and  raised  his  hand  to  his 
face.  It  grew  pale;  or  did  the  sickly  green  shade  pro- 
duce that  unpleasant  hue? 

"All  spoiled,"  he  repeated.  "Dearly  bought  and  only 
half  insured.  Bad  news  indeed." 

"I  regret,  Sir  Richard,  I  deeply  regret,"  said  Mr.  Dew- 
lap, in  still  graver  tones  and  with  visible  reluctance,  "to 
say  that  there  is  still  worse.  I  looked  in  upon  Brooks, 
the  stockbroker,  as  I  passed,  seeing  a  light  and  hearing 

voices,  and  heard  that  Vincent,  of  Manchester,  had 

Great  Heaven!  Sir  Richard!" 

The  man  arose  and  leaned  forward  in  alarm. 

Sir  Richard  had  fallen  back  in  his  chair  with  his  face 
deadly  white — it  was  not  the  lamp  this  time — and  his 
teeth  clinched  as  if  he  were  near  death. 

As  Mr.  Dewlap  approached  him  he  waved  him  back 
with  his  hand,  raised  himself  as  if  with  an  effort,  and 
brave  to  the  last  with  that  courage  which  bad  men  share 
with  heroes,  looked  his  man  full  in  the  face. 

"I  beg  your  pardon ;  a  sudden  faintness.  I  have  been 
writing  too  long,  and  overlooked  my  dinner  hour.  Don't 
be  alarmed;  it  has  passed.  You  were  saying  that  Vin- 
cent, of  Manchester " 

Mr.  Dewlap,  used  as  he  was  to  his  master's  coolness, 
was  too  astonished  for  the  moment  to  continue. 

"I  hope,  Sir  Richard,  I  was  not  too  sudden,  I " 

"You  forget,"  said  Sir  Richard,  with  a  wan  smile,  "yOw 
have  told  me  nothing  yet.  Has  anything  happened  to 
Vincent,  of  Manchester?" 

"They  have  failed,  Sir  Richard." 

"Failed!"  Sir  Richard  repeated,  with  a  shrug  of  his 


8  Stella's  Fortune. 

eyebrows.     "That  is  bad   for  us,  Dewlap.     Have  the 

goodness  to  hand  me  that  daybook,  No.  3." 

Mr.  Dewlap  fetched  the  book  from  a  shelf,  and  Sir 
Richard  opened  it  and  examined  a  page ;  his  hand  was  so 
raised  while  he  did  it  that  his  face  was  hidden  from  IMS 
confidential  clerk. 

There  were  great  drops  of  cold  perspiration  upon  his 
white  forehead,  and  one  bead  fell  upon  the  open  book. 

He  shut  it  quietly,  calmly,  and  handed  it  back. 

"Very  bad,  but  not  so  bad  as  I  thought.  Anything 
else?" 

"No,  Sir  Richard.  Here's  the  day's  account  and  the 
passbook.  Are  there  any  letters?" 

"Only  these;  nothing  of  importance.** 

"Then  I  may  go,  Sir  Richard?" 

"Yes;  good-night." 

Mr.  Dewlap  returned  the  salutation  with  all  respect 
aod  reached  the  door. 

Sir  Richard  called  him  back. 

•'Dewlap." 

"Yes,  Sir  Richard.*" 

**I  forgot  to  caution  you — not  a  word  of  the  Arethusa 
or  Vincent." 

Mr.  Dewlap  looked  offended. 

"It  is  not  likely,  Sir  Richard." 

"Just  so;  the  caution  was  not  needed.  By  the  way, 
did  you  obtain  that  copy  of  Daniel  Newton's  will  ?" 

He  put  the  question  carelessly  and  turned  to  the  ledger 
as  he  spoke,  but  there  was  a  restless  impatience  in  his 
averted  eyes  that  belied  his  indifference. 

"Yes,  Sir  Richard,  you  will  find  the  draft  among  the 
papers.  The  whole  of  the  money  is  left  to  Stella  Newton 
ttnconditionally." 

"Ah,  I  shall  find  it  here.    Thank  you.    Good-night" 

The  door  closed,  Mr.  Dewlap  had  gone,  and  Sir  Rich- 
ard was  alone. 

Then  the  mask  fell.  The  chair  was  pushed  back,  and 
the  man,  in  that  character  which  he  reserves  for  himself, 
stood  upright. 

Look  at  the  face  now  and  you  will  not  call  it  hand- 
some. It  has  dark  lines  of  rage  and  despair ;  cruel  curves 
around  the  mouth,  and  a  catlike  gleam  in  the  eye. 


Stella?  s  Fortune.  9 

With  his  white  hands  clasping  each  other  behind  his 
back  he  strode  to  and  fro. 

"The  Arethusa  cargo  spoiled,  Vincent  gone,  and  the 
bank  near  its  last  gasp!  In  the  name  of  the  fiend,  I  ana 
rained!  Oh,  if  I  could  live  these  last  six  months  over 
again,  how  differently  would  I  use  them?  Rash  idiot  not 
to  be  content.  I  might  have  guessed  that  luck  would 
turn  upon  me  and  desert  me.  Heavens!  I  cannot  real- 
ize it!  I — Sir  Richard  Wildfang — ruined!  No!"  And 
his  hands  clinched  each  other  like  wild  animals.  "No! 
I  will  not  realize  it !  All  is  not  lost  while  there  is  a  plank 
to  hold  together.  Fifty  thousand  pounds  would  save  me. 
I  could  hold  for  another  month,  for  two  or  three  per- 
haps if  I  were  sure  of  the  lump  at  the  end.  And,  by 
heavens,  I  will  be!  Where  is  the  will?  'Unconditionally,' 
he  said.  Where  is  the  will  ?" 

He  turned  to  the  table,  and  with  impatient  fingers  and 
darkly  overcast  face  scattered  the  papers  in  search  of  tbe 
copy  which  Mr.  Dewlap  had  spoken  of. 

A  knock  at  the  door.   He  turned  with  the  aspect  of  a 

moll 

"Come  in." 

"Lord  Marrmon." 

In  an  instant  the  lines  had  gone,  and  the  face  was 
smiling,  pleasant,  careless  and  almost  handsome.  He 
tarned  with  outstretched  hand  and  grasped  that  of  his 
visitor. 

"My  dear  Marmion,  delighted.  Come  in.  Surely  yo« 
jf  d  not  walk ;  how  hard  it  must  be  snowing  to  catch  you 
so  in  a  minute." 

All  this  while  the  footman  was  removing  the  visitor's 
ceat,  and,  at  last  free  of  it,  he  entered  the  room. 

Lord  Marmion  was  a  contrast  to  Sir  Richard. 

He  was  short,  fair,  genial  and  frank  as  a  boy  of  fifteen. 

He  seated  himself  in  a  chair,  and  eyed  the  room  with 
a  pleasant,  approving  smile. 

"So  this  is  your  business  den,  is  it,  Wildfang?  I 
shouldn't  mind  working  myself  if  I  were  allowed  to  do  k 
in  such  comfortable  quarters.  Why,  it's  a  bachelor's 
paradise.  Ah,  ah !  no  wonder  you  don't  let  fellows  come 
up  here;  they'd  always  want  to  come,  and  so  interfere 
With  business.  Well,  how  are  you  ?" 


io  StellJs  Fortune. 

"Capital.  I  am  always  well,"  replied  Sir  Richard,  fall- 
ing into  an  easy-chair  opposite  that  one  of  his  guest,  and 
looking  at  him  with  an  easy,  genial  smile.  "And  you  are 
too,  to  judge  from  your  appearance?" 

"Oh,  I'm  always  well.  But  I  dare  say  you  wonder 
what  brought  me  here  ?" 

"Curiosity,  perhaps ;  an  impulse  of  friendship,  I  hope," 
said  Sir  Richard,  rising  and  walking  to  a  cabinet. 

"A  glass  of  sherry — Amontillado,  I  shipped  it  myself," 
and  with  a  nod  of  emphasis  he  poured  some  into  two 
glasses. 

"Thanks,"  said  his  lordship,  sipping  the  wine ;  "but,  I 
say,  you  haven't  answered  my  question,  and  as  I  don't 
suppose  you  .can  I'll  tell  you.  I've  come  on  business." 

"Really,"  responded  Sir  Richard,  with  a  polite  aston- 
ishment, "then  you  had  the  right  of  admission  after  all. 
And  pray  wlhat  is  the  business  ?" 

"Well,"  said  the  young  lord,  looking  around  and  then 
at  his  companion  with  a  frank  and  amused  smile,  "you 
know  old  Newton — pretty  Stella  Newton's  father?" 

"I've  heard  of  pretty  Stella  Newton,  as  you  call  her." 

"Ah,  yes;  every  one  has,"  said  his  lordship.  "She  is 
the  only  beautiful  girl  I  know,  and  that's  a  fact." 

"Rather  hard  upon  the  rest  of  her  sex.    But  go  on." 

"Well,  it's  a  rum  thing,  you  know,  but  I'm  Miss  New- 
ton's guardian — trustee.  What  do  you  call  it?" 

"Call  it  what  you  please,  but  go  on,  and  I  shall  under- 
stand you." 

"Well,"  continued  Lord  Marmion,  "her  father,  old 
Daniel,  was  my  governor's  head  man — a  sort  of  b'usiness 
adviser,  and  that  sort  of  thing — and  my  governor  was 
very  fond  of  him.  Now,  old  Daniel — I  call  him  so  be- 
cause that  was  the  name  he  used  to  go  by  when  I  was 
in  the  nursery — old  Daniel  made  a  lot  of  money  specu- 
lating, and  when  he  died  he  left  me  executor.  Of  course 
he  asked  my  consent,  or  my  father's,  I  don't  know  which, 
but  anyhow  I'm  the  executor  and  Stella  Newton's 
trustee." 

Sir  Richard  refilled  his  glass,  raised  it  to  his  lips,  and, 
looking  over  it  with  a  curious  expression,  nodded. 

"I  understand,"  he  said;  "an  onerous  post,  if  Miss 
Newton  has  much  money." 


Stella's  Fortune.  II 

"That's  it,  you've  just  hit  it,"  said  the  young  lord, 
slapping  his  leg.  "Now  this  money  has  been  in  my  hands 
for  some  time,  and  I've  taken  no  trouble  about  it,  but 
they  tell  me  I  ought  to  invest  it.  I  don't  know  what  they 
mean,  and  1  hate  going  to  the  lawyers  about  it,  because 
they  are  such  old  women,  and  worry  my  life  out  into  the 
bargain.  Well,  I  thought  the  matter  over,  and  remem- 
bered you.  Of  course  you  are  the  very  man  to  help  me. 
You  are  the  best  business  man  in  the  world— every  one 
says  so — and  you'll  know  what  to  do  with  the  money." 

Sir  Richard  Wildfang's  heart  throbbed  as  if  it  were  a 
wild  beast  caged  in  his  bosom. 

Was  it  possible  that  the  fiend  had  flown  to  his  aid  and 
sent  this  boy  to  play  into  his  hands? 

He  raised  the  glass  again  and  smiled. 

"Passing  your  compliment,  m)'  dear  Marmion,  with  a 
simple  'Thank  you,'  let  me  go  on  to  say  that  you  are 
reposing  great  trust  in  me." 

"Of  course;  why  shouldn't  I?"  said  Lord  Marmion. 
"You  must  trust  somebody,  and  I'd  trust  you  against  all 
the  world.  Come,  don't  let's  bore  ourselves  to  death  over 
the  affair.  Take  the  money  and  invest  it.  You  know 
how  to  do  that  well  enough.  Will  you  do  it?" 

"I  would  do  anything  to  oblige  you,  my  dear  Mar- 
mion," said  Sir  Richard,  warmly.  "I  will." 

"Well,  business  is  over,  and  now  I  must  be  off." 

The  door  closed  upon  the  trusting  youth,  and  Sir  Rich- 
ard fell  into  his  chair,  trembling. 

"Luck!"  he  breathed,  "never  let  me  blame  you  again! 
Richard  Wildfang's  luck  never  deserts  him.  Ruined! 
Who  says  so?  Not  I,  while  Stella  Newton's  fortune  is 
in  my  grasp  and  she  is  alive  to  make  it  my  own.  Every- 
body knows  her,  do  they  ?  The  most  beautiful  woman  in 
London !  Richard,  your  work  is  cut  out  for  you.  Stella 
Newton  and  her  fortune  must  be  yours." 

Another  knock. 

His  face  composed  itself  into  its  business  calm  again. 

"Come  in." 

It  was  a  letter. 

Sir   Richard   took  it   delicately.     The  envelope  was 


12  Stefa's  Fortune. 

crumpled  and  dirty;  the  address  was  badly  written  in  a 
staking,  uncertain  hand. 

Sir  Richard  looked  at  it  questioaiagty  and  slowly 
•pened  it. 

Once  more,  for  the  second  time  this  evening,  he  has 
aknost  shown  his  emotion. 

He  arose  with  a  muttered  imprecation  as  the  letter 
dropped  in  his  hand. 

It  was  short,  simple,  and,  to  a  heart  not  entirely  stone, 
teaching. 

"DEAR,  DEAR  RICHARD:  I  have  found  you  at  last. 
Oh,  how  could  you  leave  me  so  cruelly  when  I  loved  you 
90  fondly,  so  truly?  Richard,  I  am  ill  unto  death,  and 
starving.  If  you  ever  loved  me,  have  pity  on  me  now 
jwd  save  me.  LUCY." 

His  thin  lips  compressed  themselves  tightly,  and  fee 
turned  with  an  amazed  gravity  to  the  servant. 

uWho  brought  this — this — begging  letter  ?  If  the  per- 
son should  come  again  have  her  removed  from  the  door. 
I  know  nothing  of  her." 

And  as  the  servant,  bowing  low,  retired,  he  flung  the 
tetter  with  a  cruel  laugh  into  the  glowing  fire. 

Lucy,  whoever  thou  art,  better  for  to  trust  in  the 
:y  of  the  snow  and  the  rain;  Richard  Wildfang 
rs  none! 


A  BOLD  DECLARATIOJI. 

Marriage  is  a  lottery  in  which 

The  rich  would  buy  the  prize 

And  leave  the  poor  the  blanks; 

But  Chance,  aping  Justice,  sometimes  spurns, 

Ail  filthy  lucre.  — AusTSBr. 

"My  dear  Stella,  circumstances  alter  cases!" 

Hie  speaker  was  Mrs.  Newton;  the  person  addressed 
was  her  daughter  Stella,  upon  whose  beauty  Lord  Mar- 
raion  had  passed  so  decided  an  encomium,  and  the  scene 
was  the  small  drawing-room  of  Mrs.  Newton's  villa  at 
Hyde  Park  Corner. 

As  a  slight  pause  followed  the  lady's  enunciation  of  a 
well-known  axiom,  we  will  fill  it  by  remarking  that  Mrs. 
Newton  was  a  thin,  pompous  lady,  good  at  heart,  but  of 
lofty  ambition,  whose  sole  aim  and  object  in  life  was  to 
see  her  daughter  Stella  well  married. 

Mrs.  Newton  came  of  a  trading  stock;  her  husband, 
whom  Lord  Marmion  had  spoken  of  as  old  Daniel,  was 
of  trade  also ;  he  had  made  money,  and  Mrs.  Newton  was 
endeavoring  to  impress  upon  her  daughter  the  necessity 
of  a  solemn  watchfulness  of  the  main  matrimonial  chance. 

Stella  Newton  justified  Lord  Marmion's  laudation. 

She  was — stay!  call  to  your  mind,  reader,  that  superb 
portrait  of  the  Spanish  orange  girl  which  Murillo  has 
left  us ;  add  to  it,  as  the  cookery  book  says,  a  dash  of  Sir 
Peter  Lely's  picture  of  a  countess,  and  you  have  a  fan- 
idea  of  Stella  Newton's  outward  appearance. 

Her  inner  portrait  she  shall  herself  in  her  own  words 
and  actions  reveaL 

At  the  moment  of  her  introduction  she  was  seated  in  aa 
attitude  of  easy,  negligent  grace  upon  a  blue  satin  /»•- 
teml;  m  her  hand  was  a  half-closed  book;  in  her  lap 
was  curled  a  Moravian  pug. 

«ft 


14  Stella's  Fortune. 

She  smiled  thoughtfully,  almost  daringly,  and  glanced 
at  her  image  as  it  was  reflected  in  one  of  the  numerous 
mirrors  with  which  the  room  was  studded. 

"Mamma,  I  have  heard  that  before  so  often  that  I  be- 
gin to  doubt  it.  Say  that  feelings  alter  cases,  and  I  will 
respond  readily  enough.  Tell  me  plainly,  mamma,  why 
I  should  think  of  marrying  Lord  Marmion  before  he  has 
himself  ever  said  a  word  on  the  subject?" 

Mrs.  Newton  shook  her  tatting  and  her  head  at  the 
same  moment. 

"Stella,  you  are  really  incorrigible!  Lord  Marmion  is 
too  well  bred  a  nobleman  to  speak  out  like  a  common — 
er— er " 

"Sweep,"  suggested  Stella,  with  arch  sweetness. 

''Gentleman,"  continued  Mrs.  Newton.  "You  must 
judge  from  the  actions,  from  such  apparent  trifles  as  his 
manner  when  he  meets  you,  or  says  good-by,  or  hands 
you  a  fan,  or — in  fact,  does  any  one  of  the  usual  polite- 
nesses for  you.  Does  he  blush  when  he  shakes  hands 
with  you?" 

"Never/'  emphatically  replied  the  beautiful  girl,  with 
a  merry  twinkle  of  the  deep,  lustrous  eyes. 

"Well,  then,  that  is  a  sign  that  he  thinks  more  deeply 
than  most  men,"  retorted  the  worldly  minded  woman, 
with  quick  promptness.  "Does  he  lower  his  voice  when 
he  talks?" 

"No,  mamma,"  said  the  girl,  stung  into  irony.  "He 
neither  whispers  nor  shouts  in  particular,  but  talks  as  a 
sensible  young  gentleman  should.  He  does  not  put  his 
hat  in  the  umbrella  stand  and  his  umbrella  on  his  head, 
or  stumble  over  the  door  mat  when  he  comes.  He 
doesn't  flush  or  turn  green  when  I  ask  him  how  the 
countess  is,  and  in  fact  he  shows  as  plainly  as  a  man  can 
do  that  Stella  Newton  is  no  more  to  him  than  the  daugh- 
ter of  the  man  in  the  moon." 

She  threw  the  unfortunate  pug  with  a  suddenness 
highly  detrimental  to  his  health  on  the  wolf-skin  hearth 
tug,  and  arose  to  her  full  height. 

Very  beautiful  she  looked  as  she  stood,  half  fronting 
her  match-making  mamma,  a  faint  fl«sh  on  her  clear  olive 
cheek,  a  sparkle  of  defiance  and  satire  in  her  full  eyes. 


Stella's  Fortune.  15 

"Then,  my  dear,  it  behooves  you  to  be  extremely  care- 
ful. If  Lord  Marmion  is  not  already  in  love  with  you, 
it's  time  he  was." 

"Why  ?"  asked  the  girl,  turning  to  confront  the  mother 
with  distended  nostrils  and  a  ring  in  the  voice  that  de- 
noted the  possession  of  pride  and  courage  as  well  as 
beauty.  "Why  ?  I  am  not  in  love  with  him." 

"My  dear  Stella!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Newton,  much 
shocked.  "How  extremely  abrupt  and  rude  that  sounds ! 
Not  in  love  with  Lord  Marmion?  My  dear  girl,  you 
should  not  speak  so  loud.  Lord  Marmion  has  thirty 
thousand  a  year,  and  his  peerage  dates  back  with  the 
Leonhardts." 

"Is  that  any  reason  why  I  should  love  him  or  become 
the  future  Countess  of  Marmion  ?"  asked  the  girl,  straight 
and  resolute  as  a  dart.  "Mamma,  you  trouble  me  more 
than  I  can  say  by  the  constant  reference  to  the  subject. 
Lord  Marmion  has  never  said  one  word  more  than  or- 
dinary friendship  would  warrant.  If  Lord  Marmion's 
title  is  dated  as  far  back  %$  Adam's — to  tenancy  of  Eden, 
and  possessed  the  Golconda  mines,  1  would  not  marry 
him !  No,  though  he  is  young,  handsome  and  honorable, 
I  would  rather  than  s;><  nus.a  to  the  highest  bidder 
marry  the  first  passer-by — ay,  even  that  man  on  the  other 
side  of  the  road." 

In  her  energy  she  raised  her  long,  slender  hand,  and 
to  emphasize  her  declaration,  pointed  to  an  individual 
who  was  passing  at  that  moment,  as  she  said,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  way. 

As  it  was  no  doubt  decreed,  the  individual  so  plainly 
indicated  happened  to  raise  his  eyes,  and  in  doing  so 
caught  the  sense  of  the  outstretched  finger,  pulled  up  in 
his  long-striding  walk  and  stared  at  the  exquisite  picture 
which  the  girl  made,  painted,  as  it  were,  on  the  satin- 
curtained  window. 

She  saw  him  stop,  and  she  looked  more  intently.  Their 
eyes  met,  and  on  the  heart  of  each  was  impressed  the 
memory  of  a  face  which  death  alone  could  efface. 

What  the  man  saw  was  a  girl  in  the  exquisite  fresh- 
ness of  her  wondrous  beauty,  standing  in  the  attitude 
which  the  righteous  indignation  had  inspired,  and  which 


16  Stetots  Fortune. 

a  painter  might  have  gloried  in.  What  she  saw  was  the 
stalwart  figure  of  a  man  also  in  the  bloom  of  youth,  but 
with  something  of  its  freshness  gone.  She  saw  a  fao» 
satiric  yet  delicate,  two  soft,  dark,  yet  searching  eyes,  a 
brow  chiseled  faintly  with  the  lines  of  thought  or  intel- 
lect, and  a  mouth  as  delicately  and  softly  molded  as  an 
Italian's. 

She  took  all  this  in  at  a  glance — even  more,  noticed 
that  the  figure  was  carelessly  dressed  in  a  loose,  well- 
worn  black  velvet  jacket,  and  that  it  was  crowned  by  a 
soft,  foreign-looking  hat, 

There  was  no  time  for  more ;  the  minute  had  passed, 
the  stranger  had  discovered  that  the  pointed  forefinger 
was  not  intended  as  a  signal  for  him  and,  with  a  droop  of 
the  handsome  head,  had  gone  on  his  way. 

Infinitely  wonderful  is  the  human  heart.  At  that  mo- 
ment flashed  through  the  soul  of  the  beautiful  girl  one 
distinct,  softly  fleeting  regret;  she  might  never  see  that 
face  again! 

She  knew  the  fire  had  died  out  of  her  eyes,  her  body 
was  lithe  and  languid,  and  she  listened  to  a  wordy  re- 
monstrance of  her  mother's  in  almost  abstracted  silence. 
At  last  Mrs.  Newton  concluded: 

"Tell  me,  Stella,  how  many  offers  of  marriage  have 
you  had?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  replied  the  girl,  wearily.  Two, 
tferee,  five,  six — I  do  not  remember.  Does  it  matter?  I 
lad  your  commands  to  refuse  all  of  them." 

"Exactly,"  said  the  astute  mamma.  "And  like  an  obe- 
dient girl  you  followed  your  mother's  advice.  Wait  pa- 
tiently, my  dear  Stella :  the  hour  of  triumph  will  come. 
1  know  Lord  Marmion  has  paid  you  some  extraordinary 
attentions  and  that  he  is  serious  in  them.  The  time  will 
come,  and  I  shall  see  5*ou  Countess  of  DovewellJ" 

Stella  arose,  wearied,  disgusted  with  the  subject 

"Must  I  not  dress  now?"  she  asked.  "Have  we  not  a 
dlmier  party  to-night" 

"Of  course.  Have  you  forgotten  it?"  said  Mrs.  New- 
ton.  "How  forgetful  you  are,  my  dear  Stella.  Lord 
Marmion  dines  with  us  to-nierht  and  brings  that  clever 
Sir  Richard  Wildfang  with  bim." 

"Does  he?"  said  the  jfiri,  indifferently,  us,  with  stow. 


Fortune.  17 

graceful  step,  she  left  the  room.  "And  who  may  Sir 
Richard  Wildfang  be?" 

"One  of  the  richest  and  most  influential  men  in  Loa- 
don.  I  am  surprised,  my  dear,  that  you  have  never 
heard  of  him.  He  is  a  most  particular  friend  of  his  lord- 
ship, and  I  hope,  my  dearest  Stella,  you  will  not  be  so, 
absent-minded  as  you  sometimes  are,  but  will  en- 
deavor to  amuse  him." 

The  proud  girl  smiled,  alas,  almost  bitterly. 

" Amuse  him,"  she  repeated  to  her  rebellious  heart, 
"amuse  him !  As  if  I  were  an  actor  paid  to  kill  time  and 
raise  a  laugh  upon  their  cynical  faces.  Oh,  my  mother  1 
my  mother!  if  you  were  but  a  little  less  worldly  and  a 
little  more  proud !" 

It  was  evening.  The  lamplighters  were  running  from 
lamp  to  lamp,  knocking  from  their  feet  the  snow  that 
lay  like  a  white  cloth  in  the  road  and  footway. 

The  dining-room  of  Mrs,  Newton's  house  in  Hyde 
Park  Corner  was  filled  with  the  soft  light  of  a  hundred 
wax  candles ;  the  fire  streamed  a  rosy  tint  upon  the  glit- 
tering mirrors,  the  tapestried  walls,  the  varied  ornaments 
of  bronze,  marble  and  gold.  All  was  luxury,  wealth  and 
splendor. 

The  butler,  ecclesiastical  in  appearance  and  magisterial 
in  dignity,  stood  looking  at  the  artistically  laid  table  with 
feelings  of  supreme  self-satisfaction. 

Scintillating  glass,  bright,  shining  plate,  snowy  linen. 
It  was  all  perfect,  delightful  to  the  eye,  anticipatory  to 
&e  palate. 

It  was  a  quarter  to  eight.    The  guests  were  due, 

In  the  drawing-room,  as  magnificent  an  apartment  as 
the  dining-room,  was  seated  the  mistress. 

Pride  of  the  wrong  sort  was  on  her  face,  proclaimed 
itself  in  the  carriage  of  her  thin,  acute  face,  displayed 
itself  in  the  very  folds  of  her  ostentatious  dress.  She 
glanced  at  the  clock  with  a  frown  of  annoyance. 

Stella  had  not  made  her  appearance  yet.  Lord  Mar- 
mion  and  his  friend  might  arrive  at  any  moment,  and  the 
beautiful  daughter  would  not  be  there  to  receive  them. 

The  rattle  of  a  carriage,  muffled  by  the  snow,  a  knock; 
flbe  guests  had  arrived. 


i8  Stellcts  Fortune. 

Lord  Marmion  entered  first,  bluff,  frank,  smiling  and 
boyish. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Newton,  how  do  you  do?  May  I  in- 
troduce Sir  Richard  Wildfang?" 

The  match-making  mother  courtesicd  low  and  with 
compressement  to  the  richest  and  most  influential  man  in 
London. 

Talking  as  they  went  they  took  up  their  position  by  the 
fire. 

Lord  Marmion's  tongue  rattled  on. 

Sir  Richard  Wildfang  joined  in  a  manner  delightfully 
soft  and  pleasing. 

His  eyes  wandered  around  the  room,  taking  in  the  ex- 
travagance of  the  decorations,  the  magnificence  of  the 
furniture. 

He  glanced  at  the  worldly  mother,  and,  so  to  speak, 
smiled  in  his  sleeve. 

The  game  was  really  too  easy,  the  prey  too  feeble.  He 
saw  his  road  to  success  plain  and  facile  before  him ;  he 
saw 

The  door  opened,  and  some  one  glided  in. 

It  was  Stella. 

She  paused. 

Sir  Richard  turned  and  met  her  eyes. 

Why  did  his  shrink  with  an  expression  almost  of 
fear? 

Why  did  hers  fix  themselves  for  an  instant  on  his 
dark,  masterful  face,  then  lower  themselves  to  conceal 
a  siidden  dislike  and  dread? 

Pace  onward,  Time,  and  let  forthcoming  events  re- 
veal how  true  was  woman's  instinct,  how  dastardly  was 
the  cowardice  of  dishonesty. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  SCULPTOR'S  DEN. 

Oh  love  ia  painted  as  a  boy, 

With  wicked  bow  and  arrow, 
And  whoso  feels  that  pretty  toy, 

Sure,  his  escape's  most  narrow! 

The  lamplighters  flitting  from  Hyde  Park  Corner 
carried  their  ministrations  to  humbler  streets  and 
poorer  abodes. 

One  of  them  lighted  a  dingy  lamp,  in  a  street  near 
Soho  Square,  and  so  threw  a  garish  gleam  into  the 
window  of  a  first-floor  room,  which  overlooked — not 
the  pleasant  freshness  of  the  park — but  a  row  of  other 
rooms  in  houses  dingy  and  ugly  as  its  own. 

Let  us  ascend  the  narrow,  ill-lighted  stairs,  and  enter 
that  room. 

A  strange  room  to  one  entering  as  a  stranger,  an 
astonishing  one. 

The  four  walls  are  painted  black,  and  devoid  of  or- 
nament. 

The  floor  is  bare,  and,  in  place  of  carpet,  is  covered 
here  and  there  with  the  thick  powder  of  marble  and 
stone. 

A  few  articles  of  furniture,  all  plain  and  well  worn, 
are  crowded  to  one  corner  to  make  room  for  some 
other  articles  which  evidently  to  the  owner  of  the 
apartment  are  of  greater  importance. 

These  are  life-sized  statues,  busts,  and  wood  carv- 
ings in  all  stages  of  progress  from  rough  hewn  to  ex- 
quisite finish. 

One,  a  beautiful  nymph,  rising  from  a  crested  wave, 
stands  on  a  raised  dais  in  the  center  of  the  room,  and 
so  arranged  that  the  light  falls  full  upon  that  portion 
of  the  marble  where  the  face  will  be  when  its  creator 
shall  cut  it. 


20  Stella's  Fortune. 

Before  the  unfinished  statue  stands  a  youth  whose 
form  might  have  caught  its  grace  from  the  lifetess 
figures  around  it. 

The  face  is  turned  from  the  light,  the  hands — long, 
thin,  and  womanly  white  ones — are  hard  at  work ;  tfiTe 
sculptor  is  lost  in  his  dreamland. 

Suddenly  the  chisel  faltered  in  the  practiced  hand, 
the  mallet  was  poised  with  indecision  and  doubt. 

The  next  instant  the  tools  dropped  from  the  mas- 
ter's hands,  and  he  turned,  revealing  the  same  face 
which  had  turned  inquiringly  to  the  gaze  of  beautiful 
Stella  Newton. 

He  pushed  his  soft,  silky  hair  from  his  forehead, 
and  looked  up  at  his  unfinished  work. 

"No  use,  I  can  do  no  more  to-night,  fair  nymph ; 
your  face  must  wait,  must  wait  until  my  disordered 
and  truant  fancy  can  return  to  thee.  What  has  hap- 
pened to  me  to-day?  I,  Louis  Felton,  am  usually  as 
calm  and  impassable  as  my  own  cold  marbles ;  in  fact, 
I  am  not  well  fed  enough  to  have  hot  blood  and  a 
feverish  pulse,  but  to-night  I  can  feel  the  life's  fluid 
tearing  through  my  veins  at  race-horse  speed,  making 
my  hand  unsteady  and  my  fancy  but  a  fickle  jade 
that  jigs  to  the  pipe  of  my  imagination !  And  where- 
fore? Oh,  fie  upon  me  for  an  erratic  idiot!  All  for  a 
passing  glimpse  of  a  girl's  beautiful  face.  Tell  me,  ye 
gods  of  my  own  creation,  have  I  not  seen  many?  Dq 
I  not  live  in  the  atmosphere  of  grace  and  beauty?" 

And  he  turned  with  mock  homage  to  his  statues, 
who  seemed  possessed  of  life's  reason  and  appeared 
to  listen  with  calm  interest. 

"Ah,  but  what  beauty  it  was!  Not  like  yours,  im- 
perial Juno,  though  methinks  there  was  a  touch  of 
your  pride's  fire  in  her  eyes;  not  yours,  either,  wood 
nymph,  Phyllis,  though  the  freshness  of  forest  violet 
hovered  on  her  cheek ;  nor  yours,  oh,  Galatea,  sea  mai- 
den, through  the  mystic  brine  of  nature's  freedom  rus- 
tled the  tresses  of  her  hair  and  shadowed  the  glory  of 
her  sweet,  soft  brow! 

"Oh,  Louis!  shame  on  thee  for  an  idiot  to  rave  in  the 
presence  of  yon  dead  ideals  of  one  living  girl,  beautiful 
though  she  be.  What  is  she  to  thee?  A  vision  only,  in  a 


Fortune.  at 

fashionable  window  of  a  fashionable  house;  a  note  «f 
angelic  harmony  resounding  amid  the  clink  of  gold ;  a 
gena  set  in  its  fitting  of  precious  silver;  a  rich  young 
lady,  doubtless  the  daughter  of  rich  parents,  who  would 
shudder  in  their  shoes  if  they  knew  that  their  idol's 
ckarms  were  being  extolled,  even  to  dead,  deaf  marble, 
by  the  homeless,  hungry,  out-at-elbows  sculptor — 
Louis  Feltonl" 

He  took  up  his  chisel  again,  but  left  the  hammer 
where  it  was.  He  could  not  work;  fancy  was  truant 
still,  and  as  he  stood  looking  at  his  nymph,  with  its 
uncarved  face,  he  rambled  on: 

"Penniless?  Scarcely  that.  I  have  an  estate!  Ha! 
hat"  And  he  laughed  a  musical,  ironical  laugh.  "An 
estate  of  phantom  acres,  with  an  old  house  that  would 
tumble  about  my  ears,  so  they  tell  me,  if  I  called  my 
name  aloud  in  it  The  sole  remnant  of  a  great  house 
and  an  old  name.  By  Heaven !  I  am  not  penniless.  I 
am  Louis  Felton,  Esq.,  of  Heavithorne,  squire  of  half 
a  county  which  knows  nothing  of  him  and  cares  less. 
Oh,  I  am  a  great  man — if  I  but  knew  it — though  I  earn 
my  living  by  carving  from  pitiless  marble  such  poor 
mockeries  of  my  daydreams  that  they  but  yield  me 
eaough  of  bread  and  water  to  sustain  this  thin  and 
unsubstantial  body  on." 

He  struck  himself  on  the  chest  as  he  spoke  and 
laughed  again,  and  though  it  was  a  trifle  sad  it  was 
a  pleasant  laugh  to  hear. 

Listening  to  it  one  would  say:  "That  comes  from 
a  true,  a  kind,  and  an  honest  heart,"  and  this  one 
•would  declare  without  seeing  the  face  with  its  deep, 
tender,  mocking  eyes  and  its  soft,  kindly  mouth. 

"That  being  so,"  he  continued,  "what  right  had 
yoo,  base  Louis  Felton,  to  glow  into  ecstasy  over  the 
good  gifts  of  a  wealthy  heiress — we'll  say  she's  an 
heiress,  just  for  argument's  sake,  and  to  make  my 
crime  the  greater — what  right?  Why,  every  right, 
tfee  right  that  pointed  forefinger  gives  me;  she  was 
pointing  at  me,  I'll  be  sworn.  What  was  she  saying? 
'Look  at  that  poor  man,  how  tired,  how  seedy  and 
bow  disreputable  he  looks,'  and  that  pitifully? 

"No ;  when  I  saw  her  face  there  were  fire,  righteoos 


22  Stella's  Fortune. 

indignation,  passionate  dignity  in  it — no  pity!  Why 
did  she  point?  Bah!  Let  me  to  work.  Now,  nymph, 
fancy  has  returned,  and  is  ready  to  carve  thee  a  nose, 
a  mouth  and  a  pair  of  eyes ;  but  of  what  sort  ?" 

"By  Heaven!"  he  exclaimed,  flashing  a  bright  red 
and  snatching  up  his  mallet,  "thou  shalt  have  the  face 
of  my  beautiful  lady.  Thou  shalt  have  her  eyes,  her 
small  lips,  her  proud  brow,  and  when  thou  art  done, 
I,  Louis  Felton,  master  of  tumble-down  Heavithorne, 
miserable  sculptor,  half  starving  solitaire,  will  point 
at  thee,  oh,  nymph !  as  thy  original  pointed  at  me ! 
Come,  my  powerful  mallet,  now  for  her  hair!" 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A  QUEEN  OF  SOCIETY. 

When  you  do  dance  I  wish  you 
A  wave  o'  the  sea,  that  you  might  ever  do 
Nothing  but  that.  — /SHAKESPEARE. 

As  Christmas  draws  nearer,  the  joyousness  of  its  pres- 
ence stretches  out  before  it,  and  the  society  which  still 
honors  London  by  its  presence  and  yet  intends  keeping 
Christmas  down  at  its  courtly  mansions  makes  a  pre- 
liminary spurt  and  issues  tickets  for  balls  and  eight- 
o'clock  dinners. 

On  this  night,  three  weeks  before  Christmas,  there  was 
a  ball  at  the  Countess  of  Dovewell's,  Lord  Marmion's 
mother,  and  a  brilliant  throng  was  crowding  the  elegant 
drawing-rooms  and  spacious  salons. 

The  countess  herself  was  a  grand  specimen  of  the 
haute  noblesse,  tall,  slightly  but  wonderfully  gracefully 
built,  with  clear-cut  features  and  quick  blue  eyes. 

Lord  Marmion,  the  darling  of  her  heart,  resembled  her. 
He  had  the  same  blue  eyes,  with  an  extra  touch  of  frank- 
ness in  them,  the  same  clearly  cut  nose,  but  not  quite  so 
resolute  a  chin. 

He  was  standing  beside  his  mother,  helping  her  in  her 
duties. 

Most  of  the  guests  had  arrived— one  not  initiated  in 
the  mysteries  of  ballroom  space  would  say  that  there  was 
room  for  no  more — but,  crowded  as  the  salon  was,  all  the 
guests  had  not  yet  fulfilled  their  promises,  and  the 
countess,  as  a  waltz  was  started,  said  to  her  son: 

"Ernest,  I  do  not  see  your  favorite,  Miss  Newton." 

"Nor  I.  I  do  not  know  what  makes  them  so  late,"  he 
returned.  "Mrs.  Newton  is  generally  punctual.  Wild- 
fang  is  not  here  either,  and  he,  being  a  business  man, 
ought  to  be  punctual.  Ah !  here  is  some  one,"  he  added, 
as  the  servants  were  seen  clearing  away  from  the  door, 

93 


24  Stella's  Fortune. 

and  the  next  instant  the  proud  face  of  Mrs.  Newton  ap- 
peared above  the  heads  of  the  crowd,  and  in  another  the 
beautiful  one  of  sweet  Stella. 

The  countess  went  forward  to  meet  them,  and  wel- 
comed them  most  cordially. 

She  did  not  like  Mrs.  Newton — she  read  her  character 
too  clearly — but  her  son,  her  darling  son,  had  taken  one 
of  his  odd  fancies  and  she  must  humor  it. 

If  she  did  not  like  the  mother,  she  was  attracted  by  the 
daughter — and  no  wonder,  for  Stella  was  looking1  more 
beautiful  than  ever  that  night,  and,  as  she  raised  her 
eyes,  which  had  a  lingering,  pensive  light  in  their  great 
depths,  the  countess  pressed  her  hand  more  than  cordially. 

"I  am  so  glad  you  have  come.  My  son  told  me  that 
you  would  be  here  an  hour  ago/* 

"And  we  should  have  been,"  said  Mrs.  Newton,  **b«t 
my  daughter  had  a  troublesome  headache." 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  the  countess.    "Is  it  better?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Stella,  hurriedly,  and  with  a  faint  flash, 
"It  has  quite  gone.  It  was  nothing  to  speak  of/' 

"I'm  glad  of  that,"  said  Lord  Marmion;  and  as  Stella 
raised  her  eyes  and  looked  at  him  with  a  frank,  friendly 
smile  the  countess  felt  relieved. 

She  need  not  fear  for  her  son.  There  was  nothing  but 
friendship  between  him  and  the  beautiful  girl,  and  lier 
ladyship  knew  that  there  never  would  be  anything  more, 
for  love  for  such  women  as  Stella  Newton  comes  at  fi«st 
sight  or  never. 

"Have  you  saved  me  a  dance?"  said  Lord  Marmioa, 
examining  Miss  Newton's  tablets  with  eagerness,  as  he 
passed  her  half  an  hour  later,  and  during  the  pause. 

"Yes,  there  is  one  more,"  she  replied — "two." 

"Then  grant  me  the  happiness  of  sharing  them  wfch 
his  lordship,"  said  a  low,  soft  voice  behind  her. 

She  started,  turned  almost  pale,  and  as  she  looked 
around  edged  slightly  away. 

She  knew  the  voice. 

It  was  that  of  Sir  Richard  Wildfang. 

"Oh,  Sir  Richard,  here  at  last,"  said  Lord  Marmton. 
"Have  you  seen  my  mother?  She  was  at  the  end  of  the 
room  a  moment  ago." 


Stella's  Fortune.  25 

"Yes,"  said  Sir  Richard,  "and  I  came  from  her  with  a 
message  for  you.  You  are  to  dance  with  Lady  Pauline 
Marcelles." 

Lord  Marmion  went  off  like  an  obedient  son,  and  Sir 
Richard  offered  his  arm  to  Miss  Newton. 

Stella  had  not  spoken  yet,  for  she  had  given  him  her 
hand  to  shake  in  silence.  + 

In  silence  she  generally  greeted  Sir  Richard,  for  Stella, 
usually  so  self-possessed  with  every  one.  was  always 
strangely  moved  when  the  great  Sir  Richard  approached 
her. 

He  had  so  quiet,  so  self-assured  a  way  of  presenting 
himself  when  least  expected  or  thought  of;  he  was  so 
ealm,  so  self-reliant  and  seemingly  so  sure  of  his  wel- 
come, that  the  girl,  moved  by  that  unreasonable  an- 
tipathy, was  always  embarrassed. 

She  hoped  he  did  not  notice  it,  and  to  hide  it  she  gen- 
erally spoke  quickly  and  cordially  as  she  did  now. 

"You  are  late,  Sir  Richard,  are  you  not?"  she  said, 
without  looking  At  him. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  glancing  down  at  her  and  then  around 
the  room  with  an  air  of  proprietorship  which  she  was  con- 
scions  of  and  yet  could  not  openly  resent.  "Pleasure 
must  wa^t  on  business  for  me,  Miss  Newton.  I  am  but 
half  a  butterfly  in  these  halls  of  delight.  There  is  always 
the  grub  behind  the  wings." 

He  smiled. 

She  smiled  in  return. 

His  voice  was  very  pleasant  and  musical,  yet  she  hated 
it :  ay,  hated  it,  though  she  had  heard  it  so  few  times  and 
told  herself  daily  that  it  was  wicked  and  unreasonable  to 
do  so. 

"But  I  am  glad  I  came  when  I  did,  or  that  other  dance, 
the  last  on  your  list,  would  have  gone  and  the  pleasantest 
part  of  the  evening  would  have  been  lost  to  me." 

"I  thought  business  men  never  paid  compliments,"  she 
retorted,  trying  to  be  at  her  ease  with  him. 

"Only  very  seldom ;  when  they  do,  be  assured  the  com- 
pliment is  something  graver  than  is  usual.  But  what  is 
the  dance?"  he  said,  taking  the  tablet  from  her  unresist- 
ing hand.  "A  quadrille  and  a  waltz.  I  may  have  the 
waltz?" 


26  Stella's  Fortune. 

She  looked  up  with  a  faint  flush  of  eagerness,  then 
looked  down  quickly,  evading  his  eyes,  for  she  was  about 
to  tell  a  falsehood. 

"I — I  promised  the  waltz  to  Lord  Marmion." 

He  raised  his  eyebrows  regretfully. 

"Then  I  must  be  satisfied  with  the  quadrille.  Shall  we 
walk  to  a  less  crowded  part  of  the  room  ?" 

She  inclined  her  head,  and  they  joined  the  ring  of 
promenaders. 

"This  is,  I  suppose,  the  countess'  last  ball  before 
Christmas  ?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Stella.  "The  last,  I  believe.  They  are 
going  to  Dove  Hall  to  spend  Christmas." 

"And  wisely ;  the  country  is  the  place  for  holiday  fes- 
tivities. Do  you  leave  London?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  and  she  could  not  suppress  a  st^h  of 
relief.  "Mamma  has  made  up  her  mind  to  spend  Christ- 
mas at  the  Vale." 

"Indeed?"  said  Sir  Richard,  with  a  smile  of  pleasure 
and  satisfaction,  as  if  he  had  heard  it  for  the  first  time. 
"This  is  fortunate  for  me." 

"Why?"  she  asked,  with  a  dim  foreboding. 

"Miss  Newton,"  said  a  voice  at  her  elbow,  "I  have  been 
looking  everywhere  for  you.  This  dance  is  mine,  I 
think,"  and  her  partner  for  the  Lancers  carried  her  off, 
and  with  a  low  bow  to  Sir  Richard  before  he  could  reply. 

Sir  Richard  was  not  a  dancing-  mm.  Tonight  he  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  dance  once  only,  and  then  with  Miss 
Newton.  He  had  seated  himself  comfortably  on  one  of 
the  seats  in  a  cool  recess  and  watched. 

In  all  the  heat,  the  glare  of  the  candelabra,  the  rippling, 
floating  strains  of  the  grand  music,  Stella  Newton  felt 
that  he  was  watching.  With  the  prattle  of  her  talkative 
partner  in  her  ear,  she  still  heard  Sir  Richard's  soft  "I 
am  fortunate." 

The  Lancers  came  to  an  end,  as  all  things  must,  and 
the  crowd  divided  off  into  different  directions,  and  a  buzz 
of  conversation  and  laughter  took  the  place  of  the  music. 

A  small  ring  of  admirers  pressed,  courtier-like,  around 
beautiful  Stella,  all  anxious  to  outvie  each  other  and  win 
a  smile  or,  more  precious  still,  a  laugh. 


Stella's  Fortune.  27 

The  gayety  of  the  scene,  the  spirit  of  the  hour,  dispelled 
her  strange  gloom.  The  cloud  lifted  from  her  brow,  and 
her  lovely  face  was  soon  all  smiles. 

A  wit  was  at  her  elbow,  retailing  the  latest  bon  mots 
and  on  dits.  He  was  telling  her  of  the  ludicrous  blunders 
of  a  new  belle,  the  wealthy  heiress  of  a  retired  army 
clothier. 

Miss  Newton  enjoyed  it,  and  smiled.  The  wit  was  in 
the  seventh  heaven,  and  surpassed  himself. 

Suddenly  the  laughter  died  out  from  her  lips,  the  smile 
from  her  eyes.  Her  little  band  of  courtiers  were  puzzled, 
the  wit  chagrined.  What  was  the  cause?  Sir  Richard 
had  risen  from  his  seat  and  came  with  self-possessed  and 
graceful  gait  to  claim  her  for  the  quadrille. 

She  rebelled. 

"Is  it  so  soon?"  she  exclaimed,  glancing  at  her  pro- 
gramme. "How  long  a  list  it  is.  I  am  so  hot,  too.  Will 
you  excuse  me  this?" 

"Certainly;  it  is  warm,  and  the  Lancers  are  hard 
work,"  replied  Sir  Richard,  with  the  highest-bred  cour- 
tesy. "Let  me  conduct  you  to  a  cooler  place?" 

He  had  won  after  all.    She  could  not  avoid  him. 

With  something  approaching  a  frown,  she  placed  the 
tips  of  her  lingers  upon  his  arm  and  Sir  Richard  led  her 
away. 

The  courtiers  looked  after  him  with  envy,  the  wit  with 
something  fiercer. 

"A  case  that,"  he  remarked,  with  amazement.  "What 
a  cool  hand  he  is.  Did  you  ever  see  one  take  posses- 
sion as  he  does?  Money — everything  goes  down  before 
him !  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  she  married  him !"  and  with 
another  shrug  the  pleasant  gossip  went  off  to  find  his 
partner,  and  console  himself  for  his  interrupted  triumph 
with  a  quadrille. 

Sir  Richard,  meanwhile,  skillfully  steered  Stella  New- 
ton through  the  crowd,  and  led  her  to  a  quiet  little 
fernery,  while  it  commanded  a  view  of  the  glittering  ball- 
room, was  calm,  quiet  and  restful. 

"Oh,  beautiful !"  she  exclaimed,  bending  over  a  forest 
tangle  flag. 

"Yes,  a  great  contrast  is  this  little  spot;  it  is  like  an 


jQ  Steins  Fortune. 

aasis  of  quiet  in  a  desert  of  noise.     Will  you  not  be 

seated?" 

"No,  thank  you,"  she  said,  almost  coldly.  She  did  not 
intend  to  remain  tete-b-tete  with  him,  and  was  already 
trying  to  invent  a  means  of  escape.  "I  like  the  flowers 
too  well,"  and  she  walked  around,  looking  admiringly  at 
the  tinkling  fountain,  the  fresh,  graceful  ferns,  and  the 
glassy  pools  of  water  that  lay  like  mirrors  between  the 
beds  of  rock. 

Sir  Richard  leaned  against  a  rustic  table  and  watched 
ker. 

"She  is  very  beautiful  tonight,"  he  smiled.  "Without 
the  money  she  would  be  3  prize  worth  having,  with  th<; 
money  she  is  a  prize  that  must  not  at  all  events  be  lost." 

As  his  eye  fell  on  her  with  admiring  speculation  shr 
turned  suddenly  and  shrunk  almost  visibly  at  its  ex 
pression. 

"I  think  I  will  go  back,"  she  said,  scarcely  knowing 
what  she  did  say.  "I  have  not  seen  mamma  since  we 
came  in.' 

"Will  you  not  rest  while  I  find  Mrs.  Newton  ?'  said  Sir 
Richard,  drawing  a  chair  toward  the  fountain. 

"No,  thank  you — yes,  I  will  then,  if  you  please,"  die 
answered  and  sank  into  the  chair. 

Sir  Richard  murmured  something  about  the  draught, 
arranged  the  soft  China  crepe  around  her  white  shoul- 
ders, and  mingled  with  the  throng. 

Stella  waited  until  he  was  lost  in  the  vortex,  and  arose 
quickly. 

She  would  escape  him  once  for  all !  A  curtain  was 
draped  before  an  entrance  in  one  corner  of  the  recess. 
It  might  lead  her  to  the  ballroom — and  to  a  distant  part 
of  it! 

Ay,  she  would  venture  it  rather  than  wait  for  Str 
Richard's  return,  and  she  arose  and  walked  quickly  to  the 
ewtain,  drew  it  aside  and  passed  through  the  opening. 

The  apartment  she  had  entered  was  dimly  lighted,  and 
was  too  small,  even  for  an  anteroom. 

Disappointed,  she  w£s  about  to  return,  when  some- 
thing white  and  gleaming  at  the  farther  end  caught  be* 


Stella's  Fortune.  Of 

attention,  and  she  dropped  the  curtain,  entered  the  room 
aad  crossed  it 

The  patch  of  white  was  a  statue  of  such  surpassing 
beauty  that  in  her  maze  of  admiration  she  forgot  every- 
thing, and  stood  gazing  as  if  rooted  to  the  spot. 

Suddenly  she  uttered  a  half-suppressed  exclamation  of 
astonishment,  and  with  a  heightened  color  drew  nearer. 

Surely  she  must  be  mistaken.  The  dimness  of  the 
light,  her  too  vivid  imagination  must  be  misleading  her! 

A  small  lamp  stood  on  an  ormolu  bracket.  She  took 
it  hi  her  hand,  and  holding  it  above  her  head  gazed  long 
and  eagerly  at  the  face  of  the  statue.  It  was  a  sea  nymph 
rising  from  a  crested  wave. 

The  waving  locks  were  of  marvelous  grace,  the  face 
was  sweet,  passionate  beauty.  But  it  was  not  the  beauty 
which  so  deeply  attracted  her ;  it  was  the  weird  strange- 
ness of  the  fact  that  the  face  resembled  hers!  Resem- 
bled? Nay,  it  was  an  exact  reflection  in  all  save  color. 

She  turned  to  a  mirror,  then  stared  at  the  marble  face 
again.  Yes !  She  was  not  the  sport  of  fancy.  The  face 
was  hers! 

Then  the  lamp  quivered  in  her  hand.  A  mysterious, 
half-awful  and  delicious  sense  of  the  supernatural  fell 
on  her. 

Her  face  went  from  red  to  white,  her  lips  were  trem- 
ulous. She  turned — and  found  Sir  Richard  Wildfang 
standing  beside  the  curtained  entrance  watching  her. 

With  a  quick,  impetuous  movement  she  set  the  lamp 
oo  the  bracket  and  confronted  him. 

She  forgot  everything  save  the  indignation  which  filled 
her  at  his  spy-like  presence. 

"Sir  Richard,"  she  commenced,  and  there  was  the  same 
ring  of  resolute  woman  courage  in  her  voice  that  rang  in 
it  when  she  was  stung  into  retorting  upon  Mrs.  Newton, 
"Sir  Richard " 

"Ah!  Here  you  are;  why,  where  have  you  been?" 
exclaimed  Lord  Marmion,  who  entered  with  Mrs. 
Newton  on  his  arm. 

*We  have  been  admiring  your  latest  acquisition,  my 
d^ar  fellow,"  said  Sir  Richard,  waving  his  hand  toward 
the  statue  as  he  offered  the  other  to  Miss  Newton. 


go  Stella's  Fortune. 

"It  is  very  beautiful.    Miss  Newton  was  quite  struck 
with  it." 

"Were  you  ?  Well,  I  don't  wonder  at  it,"  said  Lord 
Marmion.  "It's  an  excellent  bit  of  sculpture,  but  do 
you  know  I  bought  it  for  another  reason  than  its  in- 
trinsic worth?  Can't  you  guess?" 

"No;  really  I  can't,"  said  Sir  Richard. 

"Can  you?"  said  Lord  Marmion,  turning  with  a 
laugh  to  Stella. 

"No,"  she  replied,  faintly,  dropping  Sir  Richard's 
arm  and  going  over  to  her  mother. 

"No?  Well,  that's  strange.  Surely  it  can't  be  mv 
fancy.  But  do  you  know  I  thought  when  I  saw  it 
that  it  was  like  you,"  and  he  smiled  at  Stella.  "Don't 
you  think  it  is?" 

"I — I — don't  know,"  she  replied,  still  faintly. 

"It  is  a  little,  perhaps,"  remarked  Sir  Richard.  "It 
is  difficult  to  say.  Who  is  the  sculptor  ?" 

"Oh,  a  new  man,  a  young  fellow  named  Felton — 
Louis  Felton.  Quite  a  character  in  his  way.  Comes 
of  a  very  old  family,  you  know,  but  very  poor.  Proud 
into  the  bargain." 

"Louis  Felton,"  murmured  Stella,  unconsciously. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Lord  Marmion. 

"I  did  not  speak,"  she  replied,  looking  up  at  him. 

He  saw  she  was  pale,  and  held  back  the  curtain  for 
her  to  pass  out,  saying  as  he  did  so : 

"The  next  is  my  waltz,  Miss  Newton.  Don't  hide 
away  anywhere.  It  is  the  last  waltz." 

But  she  would  not  dance  any  more  that  night.  Her 
headachd  had  returned  and  she  would  go. 

Stella  was  resolute  sometimes,  and  when  she  was, 
Mahomet's  mountain  was  not  more  immovable. 

So  the  Newton  carriage  was  brought  around,  and  at- 
tended by  a  train  of  despairing  courtiers  beautiful 
Stella  departs  with  that  name  ringing  in  her  ears  and 
the  strange  mystery  of  the  sea  nymph  to  haunt  her 
dreams. 

Louis  Felton  1 


CHAPTER  V. 

A  REMEMBERED  FACE. 

She  is  pretty  to  walk  with, 

And  witty  to  talk  with, 

And  pleasant,  too,  to  think  on. 

— SUCKLING. 

The  Vale  is  a  country  residence  worthy  of  such 
wealthy  and  fashionable  people  as  the  Newtons. 

It  is  a  large,  modern  house,  furnished  with  every 
convenience  and  surrounded  by  well-laid-out  grounds, 
with  all  their  proper  stablings,  outhouses,  farmyards 
and  paddocks.  A  park  just  large  enough  to  be  pleas- 
ant and  small  enough  to  be  devoid  of  the  trouble  which 
clings  to  larger  tracts  of  forest  land,  stretches  at  the 
back  of  houses  away  to  the  pleasant  little  river  Don. 

At  the  end  of  the  park,  and  hidden  from  view  by  the 
trees,  stands  an  old  house  nearly  in  ruins. 

No  romance  attaches  to  it,  and  no  mysterious  phan- 
tom parades  it  at  midnight. 

It  is  a  pretty,  tumble-down  place,  empty,  tenantlesss 
and  all  but  useless,  for  the  owner  has  not  been  seen 
for  years,  his  very  name  is  not  known,  it  has  passed 
out  of  the  remembrance  of  the  village  folk. 

Old  Daniel  Newton,  Stella's  father,  wished  very 
much  to  buy  the  old  place  and  the  land  upon  which  it 
stood,  but  the  matter  was  found  to  be  entangled  in 
so  many  lawyers'  webs  that  Mr.  Newton  abandoned 
all  thought  of  adding  it  to  his  other  estate  in  despair, 
and  the  Hut,  as  the  people  familiarly  called  it,  was 
left  to  its  natural  cobwebs  and  dusty  ruin. 

The  Vale  was  rather  solitary,  there  being  no  near 
neighbors  of  its  own  class,  but  it  was  always  well  filled 
with  visitors  and  country  cousins,  and  did  not  feel  dull. 

The  nearest  house  of  any  importance  was  a  shooting- 
box,  three  miles  distant. 


Stella's  Fortune. 

It  was  let  on  short  terms  to  shooting1  and  fishing 
men,  but  was  generally  empty  at  Christmas,  there 
being  little  or  no  hunting  in  its  neighborhood  to  tempt 
kard-riding  gentlemen  into  becoming  tenants. 

It  was  to  let  now,  and  Mrs.  Newton,  sitting  in  her 
open  carriage,  regrets  it. 

"There  are  no  neighbors ;  really  it  is  quite  a  desert 
of  a  place,"  she  said,  half  in  complaint,  half  in  a  tone 
of  satisfaction,  for  she  remembered  that  no  neighbors 
are  better  than  bad  ones,  bad  ones  in  her  definition 
meaning  ineiigibles  in  the  shape  of  poor  second  sons, 
who  might  run  away  with  her  daughter's  heart  and 
spoil  her  chance  of  marrying  a  lord  or  a  duke. 

"It  is  rather  dull,"  said  Stella,  glancing  around  the 
country,  "but  it  is  very  beautiful,  mamma.  I  have 
aever  seen  any  place  I  like  better  than  the  Vale." 

"They  tell  me  Dovewell  is  a  magnificent  place,"  said 
Mrs.  Newton,  softly. 

Stella  flushed. 

"It  may  be,  and  yet  I  might  not  like  it  so  well.  The 
Vale  is  so  snug  and  comfortable.  I  hope  we  shall 
always  spend  Christmas  here." 

The  ladies  had  been  for  a  ride,  the  day  being  beau- 
tifully fine,  the  roads  hard  and  frosty,  and  the  air 
bracing,  and  the  carriage  entered  the  Vale  gates  as 
Stella  made  the  remark. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Newton,  "I  suppose  our  visitors 
will  arrive  to-morrow.  How  many  will  there  be?" 

Stella  counted  upon  her  fingers. 

"There's  Margaret,  one ;  Charlie  Venner,  two ;  Uncle 
Adolphus,  three ;  the  poor  little  Cummings,  seven  ;  and 
old  Mrs.  Dockett,  eight.  Quite  a  family  party." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Newton,  with  rather  a  dissatisfied 
fiigh.  "It  was  your  father's  wish  that  they  should  alt 
dine  here  on  Christmas  Day,  and  I  suppose  they  must." 

"I  am  glad  to  see  them,  for  my  part,"  said  Stella, 
cordially.  "I  think  it  is  only  right  that  a  family  should 
gather  together  once  a  year;  it  is  so  nice  to  see  the 
same  faces,  to  hear  the  same  good  wishes,  and  to  listen 
to  the  same  dear  old  songs.  Mamma,  I  like  Christ- 
mas; I  think  people  are  all  the  kinder  and  better  for 
ft,  and  if  it  were  not  for  the  cold  and  the  snow,  and 


Stella's  Fortune.  33 

tfce  poor  people  who  feel  them  so  bitterly,  I  should 
say  that  it  was  the  happiest  time  of  the  year." 

The  carriage  ascended  the  road  which  winds  around 
the  park  and  leads  to  the  house. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Newton,  with  a  stifled  yawn — she 
was  not  interested  in  family  parties,  or  the  condition 
of  the  poor. 

At  this  point  of  the  drive  a  glimpse — a  very  faint 
one  only — could  be  obtained  of  the  hut.  Stella  caught 
it,  and  said,  thoughtfully: 

"I  wonder  no  one  comes  to  claim  that  pretty  old  place 
— it  is  just  the  sort  of  house  I  should  like  for  my  own. 
Fancy  a  fire  gleaming  through  the  windows,  bright 
faces  and  happy  voices  laughing  around  the  ivy  and 
the  laurels.  Have  they  never  found  out  to  whom  it 
belongs  ?" 

"Never,  that  I  know  of,"  answered  Mrs.  Newton.  "It 
is  in  chancery,  or  some  legal  difficulty,  I  think,  but  I 
know  nothing  about  it,  or  any  one  else.  I  wish  we  could 
have  bought  it;  it  is  a  great  nuisance  stuck  there  at  the 
end  of  the  park,  and  in  such  a  disgraceful  state  of  ill  re- 
pair. I  should  have  thought  dear  Lord  Heavithorne 
could  have  ordered  it  to  be  pulled  down.  It  is  on  his 
manor." 

"Oh,  not  for  the  worlds,"  said  Stella,  with  a  smile. 
"It  is  the  foundation  for  all  my  castles  in  the  air ;  do  you 
know,  mamma,  I  love  the  old  place,  and  can't  help  think- 
ing, notwithstanding  is  has  so  little  romance,  that  there  is 
some  strange  interest  attaching  to  it.  I  would  not  have  it 
pulled  down  for  worlds!" 

"You  are  a  strange  girl,  Stella,"  said  Mrs.  Newton, 
peevishly.  "I  don't  know  where  you  get  your  whims  and 
fancies  from — not  from  me,  I'm  sure,  for  I  was  always  a 
sensible  woman.  I'm  glad  we  are  home  again,  for  I'm 
frozen." 

And  with  a  little  ill-tempered  shiver  the  wealthy  Mrs. 
Newton  descended  by  the  help  of  the  footman  and 
climbed  the  stone  steps  haughtily. 

Stella  leaped  from  the  carriage,  and  followed  hei 
with  a  spring  that  was  almost  a  leap. 


34  Stellcts  Fortune. 

Today  she  felt,  now  that  she  was  miles  away  from 
Richard  Wild  fang,  free,  buoyant  and  happy. 

She  entered  the  drawing-room,  singing  as  blithely  as  a 
bird  escaped  from  its  cage. 

Her  mother  could  not  understand  her,  and  after  star- 
ing at  her  a  minute  went  off  haughtily  to  her  own  room. 

It  was  a  beautiful  day ;  she  felt  full  of  energy  and  high 
spirits.  Why  should  she  not  go  for  a  walk  ? 

Luncheon  was  on  the  table,  it  was  true,  and  that,  like 
all  other  meals  over  which  Mrs.  Newton  presided,  must 
be  gone  through  with  all  proper  formality  and  solemnity. 

For  once  Mrs.  Newton  sent  word  down  by  her  maid 
that  Miss  Stella  need  not  wait,  and  the  happy  girl,  still 
singing,  cut  herself  a  crust  of  bread  and  cheese  and  ate 
them  with  the  appetite  of  a  schoolboy. 

Verily,  the  beautiful  Miss  Newton  of  London  notoriety, 
was  a  different  person  to  Stella  Newton  alone  and  unsur- 
rounded  by  beaus  at  the  Vale. 

A  glass  of  water — there  were  three  varieties  of  wine 
upon  the  table — accompanied  the  frugal  repast,  and  she 
arose  again  ready  for  her  walk. 

Slipping  on  her  hat  and  sealskin,  she  took  up  her  muff 
and  trotted  off. 

Alas !  the  fates  nearly  prevented  that  momentous  w*alk. 

"My  dear  Stella,"  said  Mrs.  Newton's  querulous  voic<e 
from  the  stairs,  "y°u  are  surely  not  going  out  again,  and 
without  your  luncheon  ?" 

"I've  had  my  lunch,"  replied  the  girl,  "and  I  will 
not  go  far,  mamma;  it  is  too  beautiful  a  day  to  stop  in- 
doors." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  what  you  want  to  go  out  again 
so  soon  for;  but  if  you  must,  you  must,  I  suppose.  Do 
not  leave  the  grounds." 

"Very  well,  mamma,"  returned  the  girl,  dutifully,  and 
away  she  tripped. 

At  that  part  of  the  carriage  drive  where  the  foot- 
paths branch  on  either  side — one  to  the  village  of  Heavi- 
thorne  and  one  to  the  park — she  hesitated. 

"Which  way  shall  I  go?"  she  asked  herself.  "Oh,  I 
forgot.  I  mustn't  leave  the  grounds.  Poor  mamma,  she 
»vill  never  remember  that  I  am  no  longer  a  child !  Well, 


Stella's  Fortune.  35 

at  least  her  mandate  has  saved  me  the  trouble  of  deciding. 
So  the  park  is  decreed,"  and  with  a  happy  smile  she 
turned  to  the  right 

Very  beautiful  was  the  park,  with  King  Frost's  dia- 
monds sparkling-  in  hedge  and  tree,  and  his  white  ermine 
robe  spread  on  the  wide-stretching  meadows. 

"Oh,  lovely,"  murmured  the  girl,  with  all  a  woman's 
love  for  nature.  "Lovely;  it  is  like  some  grand  carving 
In  marble!" 

Ah!  the  word  brought  to  her  remembrance  that  sea 
nymph  with  its  strange  resemblance. 

A  flush  mounted  to  her  face  which  heightened  her 
beauty,  and  she  went  along  more  thoughtfully  than  be- 
fore. The  end  of  the  park  was  reached,  and  there  before 
her  was  the  hut. 

She  had  walked  fast,  was  a  little  out  of  breath,  and 
to  rest  herself  leaned  her  elbows  on  the  broken  gate,  and, 
resting  her  well-poised  head  upon  her  hands,  looked  long 
and  dreamily  at  the  ruined  house. 

Suddenly  a  step  upon  the  frosty  path  beside  her  awoke 
her  from  her  reverie. 

She  started,  turned  quickly  around  and  stared;  yes 
positively  stared. 

There  before  her  was  the  face  which  she  knew  so  well, 
though  she  had  seen  it  but  once,  and  then  only  for  a 
moment. 

The  gentleman  raised  his  hat  with  a  graceful  reverence 
that  was  well  bred,  though  it  had  nothing  of  the  supercil- 
ious composure  of  the  fashionable  salutation,  and  said,  in 
a  low,  clear  and  subtly  sweet  voice : 

"Madam,  I  pray  your  pardon.  I  fear  I  have  frightened 
you." 

Stella  flushed,  lowered  her  eyes  from  his  face,  and  an- 
swered, slowly: 

"N — o,  at  least  not  much ;  I  did  not  know  any  one  was  \ 
so  near." 

"Nor  I,"  returned  the  stranger,  "until  a  few  minutes 
since.  I  confess  that  when  I  saw  you  I  did  not  like  to 
move  for  fear  of  startling  you. ' 

Stella  inclined  her  head  again. 

The  stranger,  whose  eyes  seemed  as  much  drawn  to 


36  StelMs 

hers  as  hers  to  his,  raised  his  hat  and  passed  on. 
4euly  he  turned  again. 

"Can  you  tell  me  to  whom  this  place  belongs?" 

As  he  had  not  indicated  either  the  path  or  the  hill, 
Stella  answered  for  both,  still  slowly  and  with  a  strange 
sort  of  embarrassment  that  strove  in  vain  to  conceal  itself. 

"This  is  the  Vale  Park  and  belongs  to  Mrs.  Newton.*' 

The  stranger  bowed. 

"And  this  old  house  is  called  the  Hut,  though  its  proper 
name  is  Heavithorne." 

The  stranger  inclined  his  head  again. 

There  was  in  his  look,  in  his  voice,  in  his  very  attitude, 
so  visible  a  respect  and  reverence  for  her  sex  and  herself 
ki  particular  that  Miss  Newton  was  not  affronted  when 
he  continued  the  conversation. 

"It  is  an  old  place,  as  you  say,  in  ruins.  Do  you  know 
why  its  owner  does  not  keep  it  in  repair?" 

Stella  shook  her  head. 

"No  one  knows  the  owner,  or  where  he  is  to  be  found. 
Poor  old  place,  it  is  nearly  to  the  ground/' 

"You  admire  it,  ma'am?"  he  asked,  raising  one  hand—- 
it was  ungloved  and  pink  with  the  cold,  though  Stella 
could  see  that  it  was  of  good  shape  and  white  from  some- 
thing less  than  ten  degrees  of  frost 

"Yes,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh,  "and  pity  it  is.  Perhaps 
yo«  would  like  to  go  over  it;  the  lodgekeeper  has  the 
key." 

He  smiled  with  pleasant  sadness,  and  glanced  at  the 
broken  casements. 

"A  key  is  scarcely  necessary,'*  he  said,  "and  I  will  vea- 
titre  to  make  an  entry  without  it.  Is  there  anything  par- 
ticularly worthy  of  notice  in  the  interior,  may  I  ask?" 

"There  are  some  very  fine  old  carvings,  and  the  re- 
mains of  some  stained  windows,"  replied  Stella,  raising 
her  eyes  again  and  marveling  at  the  coincidence  which 
had  brought  the  passer-by  in  Hyde  Park  corner  to  the 
Vale. 

The  strange  smile  which  had  already  lit  up  the  hand- 
some face  more  than  once  came  upon  it  again. 

Then,"  he  said,  "as  I  confess  to  a  taste  for  such 


SteHtfs  Fortune.  37 

utilities,  I  think  I  wiH  make  a  visit  of  inspection.  Madam, 
I  tfiank  you  for  your  courteous  kindness." 

He  raised  his  hat,  placed  one  hand  upon  the  dilapidated 
fence,  and  vaulted  on  to  the  weed-grown  lawn. 

Arrived  there,  he  looked  back  with  almost  a  boyisb 
snaile,  so  arch  and  naive  was  it,  and,  seeing  Stella  stffl 
looking  at  him,  though  she  had  turned  as  if  about  to  de- 
part, he  returned  to  her  and  said : 

"Do  not  think  me  impertinently  intrusive,  madam;  I 
have  the  owner's  permission  to  enter  here — and,  in  fact, 
do  with  it  as  I  please." 

"The  owner's,"  said  Stella,  startled  with  surprise. 

"Surely,"  retorted  the  stranger,  with  a  playful  smile, 
"I  am  he." 

"You " 

She  could  get  no  farther,  and  stood  as  if  turned  to 
stone,  looking  at  him  with  a  heightened  color  and  an  as- 
tonished light  in  her  deep  eyes. 

"Yes,  madam,  I,"  he  returned,  laying  his  hand  upon  his 
breast  and  bowing  with  knightly  courtesy  and  gravity, 
"I,  Louis  Felton,  madam,"  and  there  was  an  intense  ring 
in  the  sweet  voice.  "Both  house  and  owner  are  at  your 
service." 

Stella  was  too  startled  to  utter  a  word. 

He  might  have  thought  her  rude,  uncourteous,  uncivil- 
ized; she  could  not  help  it. 

The  power  of  speech,  of  everything  save  bewilderment 
and  confused  emotion,  had  left  her. 

She  turned  without  a  word  and  walked  hurriedly  away. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTMAS. 

Arms,  take  your  last  embrace. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

It  is  Christmas  Eve. 

All  London  was  alight  and  busy.  The  toy  shops,  the 
butchers'  shops,  the  poulterers'  shops,  ay,  all  the  shops 
were  doing  a  roaring  business,  for  Saint  Gift's  day  is  close 
at  hand,  and  money  must  be  spent  upon  him. 

Up  in  Sir  Richard's  luxurious  counting-house  alone 
there  seemed  no  excitement,  no  bustle. 

The  green  lamp  was  burning  on  as  if  it  never  needed 
replenishing  and  was  prepared  to  burn  on  forever. 

Sir  Richard  was  writing  with  calm  speed,  the  clock 
was  ticking  with  its  wonted  regularity. 

To  him  Christmas  was  but  a  suspension  of  money- 
making,  a  sad  and  unnecessary  waste  of  time. 

Now  he  was  writing  quickly,  because  the  troublesome 
day  was  drawing  near  and  there  was  still  work  to  be 
done. 

At  last  the  letter  was  written  and  he  rang  the  bell. 

"My  hat  and  coat." 

His  valet  brought  him  his  hat  and  coat  and  waited  for 
further  orders. 

"Is  everything  ready  at  Heavithorne  ?" 

"Everything,  sir,"  replied  the  man. 

"Then  we  will  go  down  to-night,  as  arranged.  Tell 
me  what  time  the  train  starts." 

The  valet  gleaned  the  information  from  a  Bradshaw 
and  communicated  it. 

"A  quarter  past  eight,  sir." 

"And  it  is  now  six.    Be  ready  at  eight." 

The  man  bowed  his  head. 

Sir  Richard  looked  around  his  room  to  see  that  he  had 
not  forgotten  anything,  and  went  out,  locking  the  door 
after  him. 

It  was  a  cold  night  and  a  dark  one. 


Stella's  Fortune.  39 

The  square  seemed  empty,  and  Sir  Richard  drew  his 
coat  around  him  and  buttoned  an  extra  button  as  he 
strode  down  the  steps  of  his  mansion. 

It  was  not  quite  empty,  for  as  he  strode  along,  his  face 
thoughtful,  close  and  lowered,  a  figure  came  from  out  the 
darkness  and  caught  his  arm. 

Sir  Richard  turned,  angrily. 

It  was  a  woman,  thinly  clad  and  shivering  with  the 
cold. 

She  turned  her  pale  face  imploringly  up  to  him,  and 
with  her  disengaged  hand  forced  a  shrinking,  shivering 
little  child  upon  him. 

"Richard!  oh,  Richard!  how  can  you  be  so  cruel?" 

Faint,  woefully  faint  was  the  voice;  it  came  from  the 
depths  of  a  broken  heart. 

Sir  Richard  started,  whitened  in  the  sickly  gaslight 
and  drew  his  arm  away  from  the  grasp  of  the  emaciated 
hand,  with  an  imprecation. 

"Lucy !"  he  said,  with  involuntary  dismay  and  horror. 

"Ay,  Lucy,  your  once  loved  Lucy.  Richard,  look  at 
me,  and  think  what  I  was  once  till  I  loved  you.  Richard, 
I  have  sought  you  for  years ;  I  am  starving,  dying.  Do 
not  frown  so  cruelly ;  I  did  not  say  you  knew  it ;  I  knew 
my  letter  never  reached  you,  that  the  servants  would  not 
deliver  it.  I  knew  that  you  thought  me  dead,  or  you 
would  never  have  neglected  your  poor  Lucy.  Oh,  no, 
Richard,  you  would  not,  you  were  too  kind  hearted  for 
that.  Richard,  look!" 

And  with  a  faint  effort  she  caught  the  child  up — a 
fine,  beautiful  little  fellow — and  held  it  before  him. 

"See,  Richard,"  she  continued;  "he  is  your  own!  Take 
him  and  love  him;  I  want  nothing;  I  am  too  weak,  too 
ill,  too  poor  to  take  care  of  him.  Do  not  think  of  me,  but 
save  him !  Richard,  I  plead  not  for  myself,  but  my  child  !" 

Oh  !  Spirit  of  Christmas,  wherever  you  are,  stop  a  while 
in  your  flight  and  touch  the  man's  heart !  She  pleads  not 
for  herself,  but  for  her  child — her  child,  ay,  his  child! 
Let  her  words  strike  home,  kind  spirit,  and  melt  his  hard, 
wicked  heart ! 

Alas!  no  kind  spirit  could  stop  on  such  a  fruitless 
srrand. 


40  Stella's  Fortune. 

Sir  Richard  turned  his  head  aside,  pushed  the  child 
away,  and,  in  a  harsh,  hoarse  voice,  said : 

"There  must  be  some  mistake.  I  do  not  know  you,  rny 
good  woman.  Take  the  child  away — stay,  there  is  a 
trifle." 

And  with  a  cold,  faltering,  cruel  hand,  he  dropped  a 
sovereign  to  the  pavement 

"Richard!"  cried  the  woman,  with  horror-strickem 
agony.  "Do  you  not  know  me?  It  is  Lucy,  whom  yew 
loved — whom  you  wronged!" 

At  these  last  two  words  her  voice  rang  tragical,  intense. 

They  touched  the  man,  for  they  frightened  him. 

Should  some  friend  pass  and  find  him,  Sir  Richard 
Wildfang,  being  quietly  harangued  by  this — this  womaa, 
what  scandals  would  go  forth  1  He  turned,  resolute  and 
angry. 

"Go,  my  good  woman;  I  do  not  know  you;  there  is 
some  mistake,  I  say.  Leave  go  my  arm.  Quick !" 

Then,  as  he  heard  a  carriage  entering  the  square,  b« 
Hung  her  off,  and  hurried,  like  the  fiend  and  the  cow- 
ard that  he  was,  away. 

The  woman  fell.  She  was  too  weak  to  walk — to 
bear  such  violence.  The  child  was  thrown  from  her 
arms  into  the  frosty  road,  and  lay  there  for  a  moment, 
crying  piteously. 

With  a  groan  the  mother  rose,  as  if  with  pain,  took 
the  child  in  her  arms  again,  and  staggered  weakly 
across  the  road. 

The  distance  was  short,  but  it  was  almost  too  far. 

Hter  slight,  fair  hands  clutched  the  iron  railings  and 
she  sank  upon  the  pavement. 

The  child,  moaning  fretfully,  clung  to  her  scanty 
dress  and  called  upon  her  name. 

Wearied  at  last  by  her  silence,  the  poor  little  fellow 
sank  down  beside  her  and  nestled,  shivering,  against 
her  bosom. 

Half  an  hour  passed.  Carriages  rattled  through 
the  square,  people  tramped  along  the  frosty  pavement, 
but  the  spot  where  the  mother  and  child  was  lying 
so  quiet  was  dark,  and  no  one  saw  or  noticed  them. 

Presently  there  came  around  the  corner  from  O»- 


Stella's  Fortune.  41 

ford  Street  a  queer,  ill-shapen  little  man,  a  deformed, 
diminutive  little  creature — a  hunchback. 

The  hunchback  was  more  grotesque  even  than  his 
fellow  sufferers  usually  are,  with  a  large  head,  a  pair 
of  prominent  gray  eyes,  and  a  shock  of  grizzled  hair. 

As  he  came  around  the  corner  at  a  sharp  trot,  his 
long  arms  swinging  like  a  monkey's,  he  pressed  his 
battered  hat  more  firmly  upon  his  forehead,  and,  strik- 
ing his  arms  across  his  chest  to  increase  their  warmth, 
said  to  himself,  with  a  gruff  chuckle: 

"I'll  take  a  little  quiet,  I  think.  Ah,  to  think  of 
the  money  as  is  being  spent  to-night  in  gas  for  all  them 
big  shops.  I  never  see  such  heaps  o'  toys  and  meat 
an'  feasting  stuff.  Ah !  I  think  o'  the  grubbery  as  will 
be  going  on  to-morrow;  the  plum-puddens  and  the 
port  and  sherry  wines !  Ah,  well,  the  more  the  bet- 
ter, says  old  Sam ;  and  if  he'd  got  chick  or  child,  kith 
or  kin,  to  jine  him  in  a  feed,  he'd  go  in  for  cummut 
lively  himself,"  and  he  plunged  one  hand  into  his 
pocket  and  dragged  out  a  handful  of  coppers,  with  a 
piece  of  silver  or  two  glittering  among  them. 

After  inspecting  these  with  a  whistle  of  satisfaction 
he  trudged  on  again,  shaking  his  head  and  muttering: 

"No ;  I'll  keep  'em.  What  should  I  do  with  a  plum- 
pudden  and  a  bunch  o'  colored  crackers?  I'll  keep 
'em  for  somebody  as  'as  a  sight  o'  children  and  wants 
a  pudden  bad." 

Then,  with  another  ram  of  the  hat,  which  was  al- 
ready quite  far  enough  on  his  gnarled  forehead,  the 
little  misshapen  old  fellow  hurried  on. 

As  he  entered  Grosvenor  Square  two  young  fellows 
anticipating  to-morrow's  revelry,  rolled  past  him, 
stopped,  and,  staggering  dangerously  with  the  attempt, 
called  back  at  him : 

"Hello,  old  crooked  shanks,  where's  Judy?" 

"Ha,"  grinned  the  dwarf,  "that's  it,  mind  you  be 
thankful  for  your  own  pretty  shape,  you  young  dog, 
and  don't  go  reviling  your  natural  brothers." 

This  was  to  himself,  and  with  apparent  animation, 
but  he  shrank  nevertheless  from  the  rude  cruelty  and 
crossed  the  road,  leaving  the  lighted  pavement  to 
those  wiho  were  properly  made  and  shaped. 


42  Stella's  Fortune. 

"The  dark  is  good  enough,  almost  too  good,  terf 
me,"  he  muttered,  and  he  trudged  along  quickly  and 
cheerily  as  ever. 

Suddenly  he  stumbled  over  something,  and  was 
precipitated  with  a  jerk  on  to  his  head. 

"Hello  1"  he  cried,  picking  up  his  hat  and  rubbing 
its  napless  surface  with  anxiety.  "Who's  that  lying 
there  an'  upsitting  her  majesty's  subjects?" 

A  child  answered  him  with  a  plaintive  wail. 

"Mother!" 

"Whew  I"  whistled  the  old  man.  "A  kid.  Won- 
der which  of  us  is  killed,  me  or  him?  Here,  little  un, 
hold  up  your  head.  Hello! — why,  missis — ah!  The 
woman's — yes — dead !" 

He  took  her  head  tenderly  and  turned  it  to  the  light. 
The  face,  pinched  and  thin,  but  calm  and  peaceful 
now,  stared  up  at  him  cold  and  dead. 

The  old  man  stared  aghast  for  a  moment,  then  he 
took  off  his  hat  and  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his 
forehead  and  the  tear  which  would  come  from  his  eye. 

He  looked  around  anxiously  and  called  for  help. 

For  a  wonder,  a  policeman  was  at  hand. 

With  measured  tread  the  guardian  of  the  night 
crossed  the  road. 

"Hello!  tipsy?" 

"No,  dead!"  replied  the  hunchback,  almost  indig- 
nantly. 

"And  a  child,  too,"  said  the  policeman,  with  busi- 
nesslike alacrity.  "I  must  have  a  stretcher.  Hold 
on  there  a  bit,  will  you?  The  station's  only  around 
tfce  corner;  I'll  fetch  another  man  and  the  stretcher 
directly." 

The  dwarf  motioned  in  acquiescence,  and  the  police- 
man ran  for  assistance.  He  returned  presently  with 
another  constable  and  the  stretcher. 

In  silence  they  lifted  the  dead  woman  on  to  it,  the 
child  clinging  to  her  and  calling  her  by  the  only  name 
he  knew: 

"Mother,  mother!" 

"What's  to  be  done  with  the  child?"  asked  the 
dwarf,  huskily,  as  he  stroked  the  little  curly  head 
pitifully. 


Stella's  Fortune.  43 

"Work'us,"  replied  the  policeman,  carelessly. 

"No!"  said  the  dwarf,  reluctantly.  "Poor  little 
chap,  it's  hard  lines  for  him.  Don't  cry,  my  little  fel- 
low. Mammy's  all  right;  she's — she's  asleep." 

But  the  child  would  not  be  pacified,  and  the  police- 
man had  to  drag  its  tiny  hand  away  from  the  flimsy 
skirt. 

The  action,  though  done  as  gently  as  was  possible, 
touched  the  old  man. 

"Here,"  he  said,  suddenly,  "I'll  take  care  of  the  lit- 
tle 'un.  I've  got  no  chick  or  child  of  my  own  and 
I'll  take  the  little  'un." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  policeman.  "But  you  must 
come  to  the  station  and  give  your  name  and  address 
to  the  inspector." 

"All  right,"  said  the  dwarf,  picking  up  the  child 
and  wrapping  him  within  the  bosom  of  his  coat 
'"Come  along,  I'm  ready;  old  Sam  Growls  ain't 
ashamed  of  his  name.  Don't  cry,  little  'un;  anything 
better  than  the  workhouse.  Don't  cry,  little  'un, 
mother's  better  off  now  than  she's  been  for  a  pretty 
long  time,  and  old  Sam  will  take  care  o'  you." 

And  so,  pressing  the  poor  little  fellow  to  his  breast, 
he  trudged  on  after  the  policemen  and  their  silent 
burden, 


CHAPTER  VII. 
STELLA'S  STORY. 

At  Christmas  play  and  make  good  cheer, 
For  Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year. 

— Tusso. 

Christmas  Day!  What  a  host  of  memories,  what 
varied  emotions,  these  words  call  up. 

This  day  of  all  others  is  kept  in  all  the  four  quarters  of 
the  globe.  Christendom,  though  so  fearfully  divided,  is 
one  that  day,  and  unites  in  the  incense  rising  from  myr- 
iads of  plum-puddings  and  the  millions  of  happy,  careless 
hearts.  Lord  Mayor's  Day — long  cherished  though  thoti 
art — thou  mayst  fade  if  thou  wilt ;  May  Day,  thou  art  al- 
ready on  thy  last  legs;  even  once  potent  Guy  Fawkes* 
Day  may  be  forgot;  but  as  for  thee,  monarch  of  great 
days,  oh,  king!  live  forever! 

All  the  guests  were  assembled  at  the  Vale.  There  were 
the  Cummings,  the  poor  relations,  the  tottering  old  gea- 
tleman  whom  Mrs.  Newton  most  disliked  and  snubbed 

The  Vale  was  hospitable  to  its  connections,  and  they 
were  here  gathered  around  the  Christmas  fire  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, waiting  for  the  Christmas  dinner. 

Outside,  on  the  drive,  were  many  confused  footmarks, 
impressions  of  the  feet  of  humble  and  enthusiastic  retaia- 
ers,  who  had  come  up  early  in  the  morning  to  sing  a 
Christmas  carol. 

'  They  did  it  in  kind-hearted  Daniel  Newton's  time,  they 
did  it  now  in  his  widow's ;  but  not  for  any  love  of  her— 
oh,  no,  their  grateful  voices  were  all  for  beautiful  Miss 
Stella,  and  their  eyes,  one  and  all,  were  directed  to  fcer 
window. 

Bless  her  kind  heart  The  poor  knew  her  in  their  dis- 
tress and  helplessness,  and  the  children  by  the  wayside 
loved  her  smile  and  sprang  within  its  magic  circle. 

Stella  was  there,  standing  amid  her  distant  cousins 

u 


Stelltfs  Fortune.  45 

and  shining  like  a  star  amid  the  worshiping  little  group. 

Stella  was  always  the  beauty  of  the  family.  Her  gentle 
nature  and  kind,  sensitive  heart  had  made  her  what  is  far 
better,  the  goddess,  the  best  loved. 

"How  coid  it  is !"  croaked  the  old  gentleman  from  the 
corner;  "I  think  Christmas  gets  colder  every  year.  It 
usen't  to  be  so  very  biting  as  it  is  to-day,  I'm  sure." 

Cousin  Stella  laid  her  little  white  hand  sympathetically 
upon  his  shoulder,  and  the  old  man  ..looked  up  with  a 
grateful  smile. 

"Colder?  Nonsense!"  replied  Mrs.  Newton,  shrew- 
ishly,  and  before  any  one  else  could  make  answer.  "You 
forget  your  blood  has  grown  thinner  and  your  limbs  older 
since  you  were  a  boy." 

"Perhaps  so,  Martha,"  sighed  the  old  man. 

"Besides,  the  idea  of  your  being  cold  with  such  a  fire 
as  this.  It's  ridiculous." 

An  uncomfortable  silence  fell  upon  the  little  group, 
which  Stella  broke  by  poking  the  magnificent  fire 
violently. 

"Well,  mamma,  it  is  not  such  a  very  fine  one  after  all," 
she  said,  with  a  gentle  laugh.  "We  will  have  a  Christ- 
mas log,  shall  we,  cousin  ?"  and  as  the  old  man  looked  up 
and  chuckled  in  gratitude  for  her  attempts  at  a  diversion, 
she  rang  the  bell  for  the  log,  and  with  her  own  fair  hands 
and  eyes  superintended  its  elevation  to  the  top  of  the 
burning  coals. 

Then  rose  the  splinters  and  sparks.  Mrs.  Newton 
stalked  off  to  spend  half  an  hour  in  icily  badgering  the 
footmen  and  butler,  and  the  cousins  fell  to  talking  and 
laughing  as  if  a  ghost  or  a  damp  blanket  had  stalked  off 
or  been  removed  from  their  shoulders. 

All  but  Stella.  She  sat  beside  the  old  man,  her  hand 
in  his,  and  gazed  at  the  fire. 

It  was  cold,  very  cold ;  and  if  it  was  cold  with  such  a 
magnificent  fire  as  that,  what  must  it  have  been  without 
one,  in  a  room,  say,  without  curtains  to  keep  away  the 
draught  and  merry  voices  to  drive  away  low  spirits  ? 

Many  a  poor  creature  was  in  this  plight,  but  Stella,  for 
one,  was  not  thinking  of  the  poor  in  general,  but  of  one 
luckless  individual  whom  she  could  picture  to  herself  as 


46  Stella's  Fortune. 

sitting  not  a  mile  from  where  she  sat,  shivering-  in  the 
dusty,  draughty,  time-eaten  dining-room  of  Heavithorne, 

Now,  Stella  was  not  a  reserved,  secretive  girl ;  she  was 
open  as  a  rose  in  June,  and  all  her  secrets  might  have  been 
laid  bare  before  an  inquisition  of  chaperones.  But,  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life — perhaps  the  second,  remember- 
ing the  statue — she  had  kept  her  own  counsel. 

Moved  by  an  indescribable,  shy  reluctance,  strangely 
new  to  her,  she  had  told  no  one  of  her  meeting  with  the 
owner  of  that  hut,  and,  as  that  part  of  the  park  was  little 
frequented,  no  one  had  discovered  his  advent. 

The  trees  around  the  house  were  thick  and  high,  so 
that  if  a  fire  were  lighted  it  could  not  have  been  seen 
from  the  road  or  the  village,  and  Stella,  without  any 
further  ground  for  her  belief,  felt  assured  that  the  hand- 
some and  somewhat  mysterious  Louis  Felton  was  seated 
on  one  of  the  old,  rickety,  high-backed  chairs,  shivering 
before  an  empty  hearth  and  a  prey  to  low  spirits. 

That  being  her  belief,  she  was  not  at  all  inclined  to 
gayety,  and  sat  absent-minded,  listening,  and  yet  not  lis- 
tening, to  the  prattle  of  the  well-meaning  cousins,  and 
tracing  in  the  mass  of  glowing  coals  the  delicate  features 
of  that  same  gentleman. 

She  asked  herself  if  she  should  communicate  her  in- 
fatuation to  her  mamma,  who  would  possibly  instruct  a 
batch  of  servants  to  wait  upon  Mr.  Felton  and  ask  him 
to  transfer  himself  to  the  Vale. 

She  had  half  risen  to  do  so,  but  the  feeling  of  reluctance 
and  the  doubt  whether  the  poor  master  of  ruined  Heavi- 
thorne  would  be  a  welcome  guest  at  the  Vale,  kept  her 
undecided  and  seated. 

Presently  with  a  burst  of  laughter,  the  cousins  rose  to 
dress. 

"Aren't  you  coming,  Stella?"  they  asked. 

"Do  turn!"  implored  a  little  maiden,  clinging  to  her 
dress  and  looking  up  into  her  sweet  face  beseechingly. 
"Do  turn,  Tousin  Telia,  and  let  me  turn  and  dess  in  your 
Joom." 

So  she  rose,  snatched  the  little  one  up  with  a  kiss,  and 
dispelling  her  gloom  by  a  great  effort,  ran  off  as  merrilv 
as  the  rest 


Stella's  Fortune.  47 

Dinner  arrived.  There  was  a  huge  fire  in  the  grandly 
decorated  dining-room,  with  a  log  on  the  top  for  the  grat- 
ification of  the  elderly  cousin. 

There  were  innumerable  courses,  entrees  and  side 
dishes,  and,  glory  of  the  feast !  there  was  the  pudding. 

Under  its  genial  influence  even  Mrs.  Newton  melted 
into  something  like  pleasantness,  and  the  laughter  was 
ringing  around  the  room — the  shrill  falsetto  of  the  old 
man's  sounding  cracked  and  piercingly  above  the  rest — • 
when  John  Thomas  and  Mr.  Proudley,  the  butler,  arrived 
with  the  port  wine  and  the  dessert. 

Then  what  toasts  the  old  man  proposed,  with  what 
warmth  they  wished  the  Queen  a  long  life  and  a  happy 
one,  how  they  kindled  into  something  like  enthusiasm 
over  their  frigid  and  not  at  all  lovable  aunt,  and,  when 
the  merry  girls  had  feasted  sufficiently,  how  they  trooped 
back  into  the  drawing-room  to  laugh  their  digestions  into 
perfection  and  to  leave  the  old  gentleman  snugly  tucked 
up  on  the  sofa  covered  up  with  his  red  pocket  handker- 
chief and  all  the  available  antimacassars. 

Mrs.  Newton  retired  to  her  own  room  for  a  nap,  with 
something  more  substantial  than  flimsy  crochet  as  a  cov- 
ering, and  the  cousins  seated  themselves  around  the  fire, 
some  with  their  arms  encircling  the  others'  waists,  some 
crouching  comfortably  within  roasting  distance  upon  the 
hearth  rug,  and  the  least  of  them  all  curled  like  a  kitten 
in  Stella's  lap. 

They  talked  as  only  light-hearted  girls  can  talk  until 
general  gossip  and  mirth-provoking  reminiscences  were 
exhausted. 

Then  followed  a  pause. 

"Stella,  dear,  tell  us  a  story,"  said  one  a  schoolgirl, 
who  possessed  an  insatiable  appetite  for  stories  of  every 
kind,  but  love  romances  in  particular. 

Stella  started,  and  stroked  the  little  one's  hair  with  a 
laugh. 

"Tell  you  a  story—  I  don'  think " 

"Oh  'ees,  tell  us  ta  'tory,  Tousin  Telia,"  prattled  the 
mite. 

And  Stella,  after  staring  at  the  coals  with  a  half  smile 
for  inspiration,  commenced: 

"There  was  once " 


48  Stella's  Fortune. 

"Is  th'is  a  love  story  or  a  ghost,  because  if  it's  a  good 
ghost  story  I  shall  get  the  creeps,  and  we'd  better  al 
draw  a  little  nearer,"  said  the  school  girl,  solemnly. 

Stella  laughed. 

"It's  neither,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  but  it  must  be  one  or  the  other,"  replied  the 
school  girl,  knowingly.  "A  story  must  have  some  love 
or  a  ghost  in  it  or  it  is  not  a  storv  at  all." 

"Well,  I'll  see,"  said  Stella. 

And  she  started  off  again. 

"Once  upon  a  time " 

"  'Hen  it's  a  fairy  'tory,"  whispered  the  little  mite,  wifik 
decision. 

"There  lived  a  young  girl  who  \vas  shut  up  by  herself 
in  a  high  tower  because  people  said  she  was  mad. 

"And  all  day  long  she  could  see  from  the  little,  nar- 
row slits  of  windows  the  people  passing  in  the  streets  be- 
low, and  she  seemed  to  be  always  waiting  and  watching 
for  some  one. 

"Now  the  princess — for  she  was  a  princess,  Tottie  was 
— was  not  really  mad,  but  only  laboring  under  a  spell,  and, 
you  must  know,  that  this  spell  was  cast  upon  her  by  a  face 
— a  face  she  had  seen  passing  outside  the  palace  windows, 
and  this  face  had  charmed  her  senses  away  and  left  her 
no  taste  for  life  or  its  uses,  and  only  left  her  strength  to 
watch  all  day  from  the  turret  in  which  the  King  had  im- 
prisoned her  by  the  advice  of  his  court  physician,  a  very 
wicked  man,  who  said  that  she  was  possessed  of  a  witch 
and  dangerous. 

"Well,  one  day  the  King,  who  missed  his  daughter 
sadly,  and  was  quite  changed  and  morose,  issued  a  procla- 
mation, promising  half  his  kingdom  to  any  one  who  could 
cure  his  daughter  or  remove  the  spell  which  had  been 
cast  upon  her. 

"Well,  plenty  of  clever  doctors  and  learned  men  tried, 
but  they  all  failed,  and  even  made  the  princess  worse 
through  the  perpetual  worrying  which  they  gave  her. 

"At  last  the  King,  in  despair,  issued  a  decree  that  he 
would  give  two-thirds  of  his  kingdom,  to  the  successful 
man,  but  that  any  who  attempted  and  failed  should  be 
beheaded. 


Stella's  Fortune.  49 

"This  deterred  the  rest  of  the  wise  folks,  and  the  poor 
princess  was  left  in  peace,  until  one  day,  when  a  gray- 
bearded  traveler  presented  himself  at  the  palace,  and, 
prostrating  himself  at  the  feet  of  the  King,  made  the 
usual  offer.  - 

"The  King  warned  him  of  the  penalty  of  non-success, 
and  the  gray-beard  was  conducted  to  the  turret. 

"When  he  entered  the  room  the  princess  arose,  and 
with  anger  demanded  that  he  should  leave  her  in  peace, 
as  she  was  weary  of  all  the  quacks  in  the  world ;  but  the 
old  man  took  no  heed,  and  requested'  to  be  left  alone  with 
the  princess  for  one  minute,  good  time,  by  the  dial  on 
the  turret. 

"So  the  attendants  withdrew.  No  sooner  had  they  shut 
the  door  than  the  old  man  pulled  off  his  spectacles  and 
disclosed  the  face  of  a  handsome  young  man.  It  was  the 
face  which  had  bewitched  the  princess,  and  for  which  she 
had  been  waiting;  now  she  saw  it  she  was  cured,  and 
when  the  attendants  rushed  in  the  old  man  took  the  prin- 
cess by  the  hand  and  led  her  to  the  King,  saying : 

*'  'Behold,  sire !  your  daughter  is  cured.' 

"Then  the  King  embraced  his  daughter,  and,  with  tears 
of  joy  commanded  that  two-thirds  of  his  kingdom  should 
be  made  over  to  the  young  man. 

"But  the  successful  doctor  pulled  off  his  beard  and, 
flinging  himself  at  the  foot  of  the  throne,  exclaimed: 

"  'Sire,  though  I  am  but  a  poor  peasant,  I  covet  not  thy 
kingdom,  nor  desire  thy  riches.  I  love  thy  daughter; 
give  her  to  me,  and  thy  servant  shall  bless  thy  name.' " 

"I  know  the  rest,"  exclaimed  the  school  girl.  "And 
tfoe  King  gave  the  handsome  young  man  the  princess,  and 
they  were  married,  and  lived  happily  ever  afterward." 

"Do  be  quiet,  Tousin  Milly!"  remonstrated  the  little 
one.  "Did  they,  Tousin  Telia  ?" 

"No,"  said  Stella,  with  a  strange  and  almost  mournful 
smile;  "the  King  waxed  wroth,  and  commanded  his  sol- 
diers to  carry  the  presumptuous  young  man  from  the  king- 
dom. 'For,'  he  said — and  he  was  a  wise  king,  Tottie — 
'princesses  must  marry  princes,  not  peasants ;  riches  must 
wed  with  riches,  not  poverty/ 


5O  Stella's  Fortune. 

"So  the  young1  man  was  carried  away,  and  never  saw 
his  princess  again." 

"And  the  princess  ?"  asked  half  a  dozen  voices.  "What 
became  of  her,  Cousin  Stella?" 

"Oh,  she,"  hesitated  Stella,  with  the  same  smile,  "she 
went  dazed  again,  and  had  to  be  taken  back  to  the  tower 
again ;  and  that's  the  end  of  the  story." 

"And  a  very  pretty  story,  too,"  decided  the  school  girl. 
"But  you  said  it  was  not  a  love  story,  and  it  was, 
wasn't  it,  girls  ?  Because,  of  course,  the  young  man  loved 
the  princess." 

"It's  rather  a  melancholy  ending,  Stella,"  remarked 
another. 

"All  real  love  does  end  sadly,"  said  Stella.  "And  now 
we  must  have  some  tea " 

At  that  instant  a  loud,  decisive  knock  sounded  in  the 
hall. 

All  the  girls — including  Stella — jumped,  and  were 
startled. 


CHAPTER  VIIL 

A  CHRISTMAS  GUEST. 
To  find  the  mind's  construction  in  the  face. 

— &HAKESPEARH. 

"Dear  mel"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Newton,  who  had  just 
entered  the  room.  "Who  can  that  be?  Not  a  visitor, 
surely,  on  Christmas  night.  No  more  of  those  tiresome 
carol  singers,  I  hope." 

All  the  girls  stood  listening,  with  their  faces  turned 
toward  the  door. 

A  footman  opened  the  hall  door,  a  strangely  pleasant 
voice  could  be  heard  in  short  colloquy  for  a  minute  or 
two,  then  the  drawing-room  door  was  opened  by  John 
Thomas,  and  there  entered  no  other  than  Stella's  stranger 
— Mr.  Louis  Felton! 

He  was  wrapped  in  a  loose,  thick  coat ;  he  held  a  loose, 
soft  cap  in  his  hand,  and  on  his  face  was  the  smile  of 
half-amused  but  wholly  good-humored  satire  which  Stella 
remembered  so  well. 

Mrs.  Newton  stared  for  a  moment — in  which  she 
seemed  to,  and  most  assuredly  did,  take  in  every  article 
of  the  stranger's  careless  attire ;  and  then,  with  her  com- 
pany smile,  tempered  by  a  little  cold  frown,  which  seemed 
to  say,  "I  really  don't  know  you,"  glanced  at  the  card. 

Stella — her  self-command  and  possession  dispersed  and 
routed  by  this  amazing  apparition— •fliad  risen  from  her 
chair  and  stood  looking  at  him  with  a  smile  that  was  al- 
most nervous. 

The  stranger  bowed — it  was  a  courtly  bow — to  all,  and 
though  none  but  she  was  conscious  of  it,  in  especial  to 
Stella. 

"Madam,"  he  said,  addressing  himself  to  Mrs.  Newton, 
"pray  pardon  this  intrusion.  I  was  unwilling  to  enter  in 
my  present  and  unsuitable  attire,  but  your  servant  opened 
the  door  and  announced  me  before  I  could  warn  him* 

il 


52  Stella's  Fortun*. 

Madam,  I  am  the  bearer  of  a  note,  not  direct  from  the 
writer,  but  as  his  messenger's  deputy." 

With  a  smile,  unembarrassed  and  wonderfully  frank 
and  sweet,  he  took  from  his  breast  an  envelope  and 
handed  it  with  courtly  grace  to  the  bewildered  matron. 

"Ex — "  she  said,  hesitatingly.  "Excuse  me  if  I  do  not 
Httderstand,  Mr. — Mr. — Felton.  A  messenger's  deputy  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh  to  match  the  smile.  "The 
writer  of  the  note  dispatched  a  messenger  on  horseback. 
The  man  arrived  as  far  as  my  house,  when  the  horse 
slipped  and  threw  him  within  a  yard  of  my  gate.  I  heard 
him,  fortunately,  and  with  the  aid  of  a  box  of  fusees  dis- 
covered him  half  up  to  his  waist  in  snow,  with  a  sprained 
ankle.  As  he  could  not  move  I  carried  him  into  my  room, 
laid  him  beside  the  fireplace — he  laid  a  stress  upon  the 
place — comfortably  wrapped  up  in  a  thick  rug,  and  set  off 
with  the  note,  which  he  declared  must  be  delivered  imme- 
diately." 

Mrs.  Newton  smiled,  but  was  still  bewildered  and  pt»* 
zled,  and  called  to  the  footman. 

"It  is  very  kind  of  you,  Mr.  Felton.  I  did  not  know  I 
had  so  considerate  a  neighbor." 

She  glanced  at  Stella,  as  much  as  to  say: 

"Who  can  it  be  ?  Somebody  from  the  Hal!  or  the 
Manor?" 

But  Stella  remained  motionless,  her  eyes  cast  upon  the 
ground,  realizing  the  whole  scene  as  the  pleasant  voice 
described  it. 

"And,"  continued  Mrs.  Newton,  **I  am  so  shocked  you 
should  have  exposed  yourself  to  the  dreadful  weather, 
Pray  be  seated.  John,  take  this  gentleman's  coat  We 
hare  dined ° 

But  Mr.  Felton  courteously  intemipted  her. 

"I  am  grateful,  madam ;  but  I  cannot  leave  my  patient 
A  sprain  is  a  painful  thing,  and  uncomfortable  to  bear  tor 
solitude." 

Mrs.  Newton  stared. 

"Solitude!"  she  said,  in  amazement  *Yonr  set* 
vants " 

"I  do  not  possess  any,  madam,"  he  retorted,  with  a 
smile  of  humor  just  apparent  on  his  finely  cut  tips. 
servants  T  exclaimed  Mrs.  Newton. 


SteU&'s  Fortune.  53 

vo«  are  jesting,  sir.  W — what  house?  Excuse  me,  but 
I  have  not  the  honor  of  knowing  whom  I  am  addressing. 
Do  you  come  from  the  Hall  or  the  Manor?" 

"Neither,"  replied  the  stranger,  the  smile  broadening. 
"My  name,  as  the  card  may  inform  you,  is  Louis  Feltoe, 
and  I  am  the  owner  of  Heavithorne,  or,  as  I  believe  it  is 
less  pretentiously  and  more  consistently  termed,  the  HuL" 

'The  Hut!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Newton,  staring  at  him. 
"But — but  you  are  not  living  there  without  servants,  wi&- 
out  anything?" 

"Yes,  madam,"  he  replied,  throwing  back  his  head  a 
little  and  laughing  quietly.  "There  is  furniture  enough  ia 
all  conscience,  and  dust,  too.  I  have  plenty  to  eat,  thanks 
to  a  convenient  traveling  bag,  and  a  fair  stock  of  coa- 
tentment.  I  should  like  a  fire,  perhaps,  but  as  there  is  no 
fuel  I  cannot  make  it,  and  so  I  make  myself  comfortable 
in  the  rug,  which,  by  the  way,  is  an  excellent  thing,  as 
the  unfortunate  guest  will  admit." 

Mrs.  Newton,  by  dint  of  staring  and  hard  thinking,  had 
determined  upon  a  course  of  action. 

Things  did  not  look  promising.  Mr.  Louis  Felton 
looked  as  poor  as  his  house,  but,  then,  he  might  be  only 
eccentric  and  extremely  rich. 

It  would  not  be  safe  to  give  him  the  cold  shoulder ;  he 
looked  a  gentleman  and  she  would  hope  for  the  best 

So,  with  a  cordiality  which  the  worldly  wise  lady  knew 
how  to  assume,  she  insisted  upon  his  taking  a  seat,  or,  at 
least,  approaching  the  fire,  and,  stalking  up  to  it,  she  said, 
with  a  bland  smile: 

"Let  me  introduce  my  daughter,  Mr.  Felton — Miss 
Newton.  Stella,  my  dear,  you  know  the  old — ahem !  the 
pretty,  romantic  little  villa  at  the  end  of  the  park,  which 
has  been  empty  so  long — this  gentleman  is  the  owner, 
Mr.  Louis  Felton/* 

Mr.  Louis  Felton  bowed  low  with  his  frank  smile,  and 
Stella,  longing  to  declare  that  she  had  met  him  before, 
but  feeling  unable  to  speak,  bowed  in  return,  and  made 
room  for  him  at  the  fire,  where  the  cousins,  one  and  all, 
smiled  a  welcome. 

"I  will  warm  my  hands,**  he  said,  "and  then  start  for 
home.  My  poor  friend  does  not  seem  a  particularly  pa- 
taoct  individual,  and  was  in  such  a  state  of  excitement  at 


$4  Stella's  Fortune. 

his  mishap— not  for  the  pain,  mark  me,  but  on  account 
of  the  delay  in  the  delivery  of  the  letter — that  I  promised 
I  would  make  all  haste  back  to  him  as  an  assurance  of 
its  safe  receipt." 

This  he  said  thoughtfully  to  the  fire  over  which  he  was 
bending1,  then  he  turned  his  frank,  brown  eyes  upon 
Stella,  and,  with  a  little  sad  smile,  said : 

"You  are  quite  right  in  your  estimation  of  the  Hut, 
its  appellation  fits  it  to  a  nicety.  It  is  antique,  interesting, 
and  draughty." 

"It  must  be  dreadfully  cold  and  cheerless,"  she  said, 
looking  at  him  with  a  dangerous  pity  in  her  gentle  eyes. 
"Are  you  not  frozen — no  fire,  no  friends — all  alone  ?  'Tis 
so  dreary  at  Christmas." 

"I  do  not  find  it  so  dreadful,"  he  returned,  candidly; 
"at  least,  I  did  not  think  it  so  until  this  moment,"  he  put 
in,  in  a  low  key,  looking  at  her  significantly.  "Perhaps 
because  I  am  used  to  the  cold  and  have  spent  many  a 
Christmas  as  solitary." 

Here  Mrs.  Newton,  who  had  left  the  room,  re-entered. 

"Mr.  Felton,  we  cannot  find  the  horse  anywhere.  I  sent 
to  have  him  unsaddled  and  stabled." 

Mr.  Felton  laughed. 

"Madam,  the  horses  that  brought  me  here  are  warnvng 
ftt  your  hospitable  fire  this  moment." 

The  cousins  laughed,  and  Tottie  was  so  amused  thnt  she 
left  Stella's  dress  and  went  to  pat  the  horse  nearest  her, 
whereupon  the  stranger  lifted  her  in  his  arms  and  get  her 
upon  his  shoulder  with  a  kiss,  from  which  perch  she 
tooked  down  proudly  and  triumphantly. 

"Credit  me,  madam,  for  more  consideration  for  my 
neck  than  to  trust  it  on  such  a  night  to  a  ho^se  that  had 
already  stumbled!  No,  I  tied  him  to  the  balustrade  in 
the  hall,"  he  added,  laughing,  "and  confided  my  valuable 
head  to  my  own  legs." 

Mrs.  Newton  smiled,  because  all  the  rest  were  smiling, 
and  because  it  was  positively  impossible  to  resist  the  gen- 
ial laugh  and  the  handome,  good-humored  face  of  the 
stranger.  Then  she  said,  decisively: 

"All  the  more  reason  that  you  should  not  return  to 
your  uncomfortable  quarters.  It  mu«t  be  simply  fright- 


Stella's  Fortune.  55 

ful  in  such  a  night  without  a  fire — dreadful,  and  I  can't 
think  how  any  sane  man " 

Here  she  stopped,  still  doubting  whether  it  would 
be  wise  to  pour  her  vinegar  upon  a  man  of  uncertain 
position. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Mr.  Felton,  "indeed  I  have  such 
a  strong  imagination  that  I  shall  be  able  to  raise  up  a 
picture  of  this  comfortable  room  and  glorious  fire,  and 
that  shall  serve  me  until  I  go  to  sleep.  And  now 
good-night." 

Stella  held  out  her  hand,  reluctantly,  and  looked 
across  at  Mrs.  Newton. 

"Mamma,"  she  said,  falteringly,  "could  we  not  send 
two  men  with  a  mattress  to  bring  the  messenger  here? 
Mr.  Felton  will,  for  his  charity's  sake,  perhaps,  con- 
sent to  that." 

Mr.  Felton  bowed. 

"And  spend  the  rest  of  the  Christmas  Day  with  us," 
said  Mrs.  Newton. 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  compliance,  and,  per- 
haps not  ill  pleased  that  he  should  be  compelled  to 
accept,  the  strange  owner  of  Heavithorne,  who  insist- 
ed upon  accompanying  the  servants  to  the  Hut,  agreed 
to  return  with  them  and  spend  his  Christmas  night 
beside  a  cheerful  fire  and  in  cheerful  society  instead 
of  in  a  cold,  comfortless  room  in  solemn  solitude. 

In  a  short  time  the  cavalcade  returned. 

During  their  absence  Mrs.  Newton  had  been  so 
much  occupied  in  giving  orders  anent  the  bedchamber 
to  be  occupied  by  the  master  of  Heavithorne  that  she 
had  had  no  time  to  communicate  the  contents  of  the 
letter  to  Stella,  who  seemed  to  have  become  all  smiles, 
blushes  and  absence  of  mind,  which,  however,  disap- 
peared as  the  voyagers  returned,  bringing  the  lamed 
man  with  them. 

Mrs.  Newton — indeed,  four  of  them — went  into  the 
hall  to  see  the  arrival. 

Mr.  Felton  had  superintended  the  ambulance,  and 
thus  the  messenger  lay  as  comfortably  as  could  be 
expected. 

He  was  a  young  man  of  rather  forbidding  aspect, 
with  heavily  wrinkled  brow  and  lips  rather  tightly 


56  Stella's  Fortune. 

compressed,  as  if  with  the  suppressing  of  some  intense 
emotion  of  the  past. 

He  was  grateful,  though,  especially  to  Mr.  Felton, 
who  had  been  as  tender  as  a  woman  with  him,  and 
he  expressed  his  thanks  rather  sullenly,  but  genuinely. 

"Here  we  are,"  said  Mr.  Felton,  as  the  footman 
helped  him  off  with  his  coat,  "and  I  think  our  friend 
will  do  if  he  be  put  to  bed  and  has  his  foot  bandaged. 
As  to  the  horse,  one  of  your  servants  has  ridden  him 
around  to  your  stable,  which,  I  confess,  is  a  great  deal 
more  comfortable  and  suitable  to  his  requirements 
than  my  hall." 

Saying  all  this,  and  a  great  deal  more,  in  his  pleas- 
ant, musical  voice,  he  entered  the  drawing-room  and 
became,  as  it  were,  en  famille. 

Mrs.  Newton  was  not  a  philanthropist,  and  had  not 
the  bump  of  universal  benediction  strongly  developed, 
but  even  she  could  not  but  thaw  under  the  genial 
warmth  of  his  humor,  and  soon — in  so  short  a  time 
as  a  couple  of  hours — the  cousins  had  grown  quite 
familiar  and  Tottie  had — just  before  her  departure 
to  bed — requested  a  kiss,  which  Mr.  Felton  gracefully 
bestowed,  some  of  the  cousins  feeling  during  the  salu- 
tation that  Tottie  was  at  that  moment  of  her  life  to 
be  envied. 

Mrs.  Newton  asked  some  questions.  When  they 
were  of  a  general  character  Louis  Felton  answered 
with  a  well-bred  politeness;  when  they  touched  upon 
himself  and  his  affairs  he  was  more  reserved. 

Stella  was  seated  near  him,  and  listened  with  all 
her  ears — and  perhaps  her  heart. 

She  thought  the  delicate  face  more  beautiful  than 
ever,  and  he  thought — well,  perhaps  one  person's 
thoughts  are  enough  at  a  time. 

The  evening  slipped  away  rapidly;  the  elderly  cou- 
sin had  come  in  for  his  cup  of  tea,  and  now  sat  in  his 
corner  listening  with  pleased  smile  and  continual,  "ay, 
ay,"  to  the  conversation. 

Presently,  the  cousins  having  adjourned  for  snap- 
dragon, Stella  found  herself  standing  with  Mr.  Louis 
Felton  a  little  apart  from  the  rest,  beside  a  man  in 
armor. 


Stelltfs  Fortune.  57 

He  was  looking  at  the  pictures,  and  she,  acting  on 
the,  impulse  of  the  moment,  said,  in  a  low  voice: 

"Are  you  an  artist,  Mr.  Felton?" 

He  started  visibly,  but  smiled  down  upon  her, 
faintly. 

"I  hope  so." 

"Yes;  but  I  mean,  do  you  paint?" 

"No,"  he  said,  "that  is  beyond  me.     I  am  a  sculptor." 

"I  thought  so,"  she  said,  in  a  low  Voice. 

"Why?"  he  asked,  in  a  low  voice. 

"Because—" 

Then  she  hesitated.  She  decided  not  to  tell  him  of 
the  sea  nymph  at  the  Countess  of  Dovewell's.  She 
felt  that  the  supposed  resemblance  must  be  only  a 
fancy  of  hers,  or,  at  the  most,  a  coincidence. 

"Well,  a  lady  is  not  always  compelled  to  tell  her 
reason,"  she  said;  returning  his  smile. 

"Never,"  he  said.  "But  I  am  curious  to  know  how 
you  discovered  it.  Yes,  I  am  a  sculptor;  a  very  poor 
one,  I  am  afraid." 

"You  like  your  art?" 

"J  love  it,"  he  replied,  "which  is  fortunate,  as  I  get 
my  bread  by  it." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  curious  glance.  In  her 
estimation  he  had  gained  by  that  fact. 

"And  is  it  hard  work?  It  must  be  with  the  chisel 
and  the  mallet.  Are  you  not  afraid  of  spoiling  a  face 
at  the  least  touch?" 

He  laughed. 

"No;  I  never  commence  a  face  until  the  rest  of  the 
figure  is  completed,  and  not  even  then  until  I  have  my 
ideal  in  my  mind's  eye  very  plainly.  And  when  I  have 
done  that  I  work  at  the  face  without  stopping  untfl 
it  is  finished." 

"A  sort  of  inspiration?"  asked  Stella,  with  a  slight 
blush. 

"Exactly;  sometimes  quite  an  inspiration,"  he  re- 
plied, looking  at  her — she  thought  with  some  sig- 
nificance. 

"I  have  seen  very  little  good  statuary,"  she  said, 
thoughtfully. 


58  Stella's  Fortune. 

"Then  you  must  not  come  to  my  studio  for  it,"  he 
laughed. 

"Where  is  your  studio?"  she  asked.  He  was  so  can- 
did, so  frank,  so  gentle  in  his  manner  that  she  felt  bold. 

"In  a  back  street  of  London.  A  very  dingy  room 
in  a  very  dingy  house." 

"Why  do  you  not  bring  your  work  down  here?"  she 
said.  Then  she  blushed,  for  she  felt  that  she  had  ut- 
tered an  invitation. 

"I  think  I  shall,"  he  said.  "The  Hut  would  make 
a  capital  den  for  me.  I  think  I  shall.  Perhaps,  if  I 
should,  you  will  pay  me  a  visit,  Miss  Newton?" 

Stella  did  not  answer. 

At  this  moment  Mr.  Proudley  made  his  appearance 
with  an  immense  dish  of  raisins  and  a  bottle  of  spirits 
of  wine ;  the  children — young  and  old — set  up  a  clam- 
or, and  conversation  was  rendered  impossible. 

Mr.  Proudley  set  the  dish  on  the  table,  applied  a 
sufficient  quantity  of  spirits  of  wine  to  the  raisins, 
ignited  it,  and  then  stood  at  a  little  distance,  with  as 
broad  a  grin  as  his  dignity  would  allow  him  to  exhibit. 

All — Stella  and  Mr.  Felton  included — grabbed  at  the 
raisins;  there  were  general  laughter  and  screaming. 

Suddenly  the  hall  porter — who  had  heard  a  step  on  the 
stone  flight — opened  the  door,  and  there  entered  Sir 
Richard  Wildfang. 

His  appearance  was  so  sudden,  his  dark  face  ren- 
dered so  ghostly  and  fiendish  by  the  wan,  white  light 
of  the  burning  spirits,  that  the  children  uttered  a 
scream,  and  Stella  turned  pale  and  shrank  back,  clutch- 
ing some  one's  arm  as  she  did  so. 

The  some  one  was  Louis  Felton. 

Sir  Richard  regarded  the  group  for  a  moment  with 
his  cynical  smile,  then  came  forward  with  outstretched 
hand  to  Mrs.  Newton, 

"My  dear  Sir  Richard,"  she  said,  "I  am  so  glad  you 
have  come.  Your  note  has  only  just  reached  us." 

As  Sir  Richard  shook  hands  with  Stella  her  face 
showed  her  surprise  so  plainly  that  he  looked  for  an 
explanation. 

"Oh,  I  have  not  had  time  to  tell  Stella,"  said  Mrs. 
Newton.  "Your  messenger  met  with  an  accident,  and 


Stella's  Fortune.  59 

had  it  not  been  for  this  gentleman,  a  near  neigh- 
bor, who  found  your  man  and  was  kind  enough  to 
bring  the  note  himself,  we  should  not  have  known 
you  were  coming." 

Sir  Richard  smiled,  and  advanced  to  bow  to  the 
kind  gentleman,  as  Mrs.  Newton  introduced  them  to 
each  other. 

The  two  advanced,  bowed  coldly,  and  looked  hard 
into  each  other's  faces;  they  met  with  no  reflections 
of  sympathy. 

"My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Newton,  "Sir  Richard  has 
taken  the  shooting-box,  and  kindly  offered  to  pay  us 
a  visit " 

"Say,  rather,  was  presuming  enough  to  beg  for 
shelter,  my  men  not  having  prepared  a  room  for  me," 
corrected  Sir  Richard,  with  a  bow,  adding  to  Stella: 
"You  know,  I  was  about  to  tell  you  at  Lady  Dove- 
well's  that  I  should  be  your  near  neighbor  at  Christ- 
mas, but  something  interrupted  me." 

Stella  had  regained  her  usual  stately  politeness,  and 
exchanged  remarks  on  the  weather  with  the  wealthy 
baronet,  and  the  snap-dragon  being  demolished,  they 
all  repaired  to  the  drawing-room. 

But  though  they  were  more  in  number  the  talk 
flagged. 

Stella  was  quiet;  all  her  spirits  seemed  to  have  gone. 

Mr.  Felton  had  grown  reserved. 

Presently  Sir  Richard  displayed  some  anxiety  anent 
his  man. 

"I  hope  he  is  not  hurt,"  he  said.  "I  was  afraid 
something  would  happen  to  him,  for  he  is  the  most 
reckless  creature.  I  only  engaged  him  last  night." 

"Indeed?"  said  Mrs.  Newton.  "I  hope  he  is  honest 
and  trustworthy?" 

"Eminently  so,  if  I  am  any  judge  of  character,"  said 
Sir  Richard,  with  a  peculiar  smile. 

"I  found  him  in  the  street,  and  rescued  him  from 
what  he  would  think  a  great  disgrace — the  prison  and 
the  poorhouse." 

"Dear  me,"  said  Mrs.  Newton. 

Then  she  added: 

"Ah,  we  have  heard  of  your  benevolence.  Sir  Rich- 


&>  Stead's  Fortune. 

ard.    Poor  man !  I  dare  say  he  is  extremely  grateful.*' 

"Extremely,"  said  Sir  Richard,  with  another  of  his 
peculiar  smiles. 

Stella  arose  to  get  an  album. 

Mr.  Felton,  who  was  near  the  table,  bent  over  and 
almost  whispered. 

"Have  you  known  Sir  Richard  Wildfang  long,  Miss 
Newton  ?" 

"No,"  answered  Stella,  with  so  evident  a  dislike  to 
the  very  name  in  her  tone  that  the  questioner  was 
justified  in  asking  her: 

"Do  you  not  like  him?" 

"I  do  not,"  said  Stella,  glancing  at  the  dark,  sleek 
face  of  the  influential  baronet. 

Then,  in  a  low  whisper,  and  with  strange  earnest- 
ness, she  added: 

"Mr.  Felton,  you  should  be  a  judge  of  faces  and  the 
minds  they  index.  Tell  me  honestly,  do  you  think 
that  face  a  good  one— one  to  be  trusted?'* 

"No,"  replied  the  sculptor,  glancing  up. 

"A  bad  one,  then?"  breathed  Stella,  "and  not  to  be 
trusted  ?" 

"A  very  bad  one,  and  to  be  feared,"  replied  Louis 
Felton,  in  a  tone  as  earnest  as  her  own. 

"When  did  Mr.  Felton  arrive?"  asked  Sir  Richard, 
in  a  low  whisper  of  Mrs.  Newton  by  the  fire. 

"Yesterday  only,"  replied  the  wily  lady,  anxious  for 
some  information. 

Sir  Richard  elevated  his  eyebrows. 

"Yesterday  only.  Hem!  Do  you  know  anythirf* 
of  him,  may  I  ask?" 

"N— o,"  hesitated  Mrs.  Newton.  "He  must  be  ot 
good  family,  you  know,  Sir  Richard — he  owns  Heavi- 
thorne." 

Sir  Richard  smiled,  as  if  pitying  her  simplicity. 

"Not  necessarily.  Remember  that  the  property  is 
in  Chancery.  This  may  be  one  of  the  distant  branches. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Newton,  may  I  venture  as  a  man  of 
business  and  of  the  world  to  warn  you?  This  young 
fellow  has  a  plausible  tongue  and  an  interesting  face- 
see,  he  has  managed  to  interest  your  u^ tighter  with  it. 
My  dear  madam,  it  behooves  you  to  be  careful.  There 


Stella's  Fortune.  6l 

are  so  many  impostors,  and  they  all  have  nice,  well- 
bred  ways  and  taking  faces." 

Mrs.  Newton  was  in  a  tremor  of  horror,  and  she  felt 
inclined  to  rise,  drag  the  valuable  Stella  from  contact 
with  the  stranger  and  turn  Mr.  Felton  himself  out  of 
doors.  But  Sir  Richard  restrained  her. 

"Perhaps  it  may  be  all  right,  my  dear  Mrs.  Newton. 
But,  at  the  best,  the  young  man  must  be  very — ahem ! 
— poor.  Consider  the  state  of  the  property.  Yes,  very 
poor!" 

So  the  skillful  man  of  the  world  had  already  com- 
menced to  undermine  beneath  Mr.  Louis  Felton's  feet, 
and  it  behooved  Don  Cupid  to  buckle  on  his  armor  if 
he  would  hope  to  cope  with  craft,  subtlety  and  cun- 
ning. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

ONE  MORE  UNFORTUNATE. 

Ah,  what  a  sight  was  there) 
A  strong  man  driven  to  despair. 

So  much  for  Christmas  at  the  Vale. 

There  is  still  the  same  Christmas  Day  to  chronicle 
in  another  place.  Christmas  Eve  is  not  yet  disposed  of. 

Let  us  return  to  the  police-station,  which  the  mourn- 
ful procession  reached  in  a  few  minutes. 

The  policemen  deposited  their  still  burden  in  a 
room  set  apart  for  such  sad  purposes.  Poor  Lucy  was 
laid  out  upon  a  plain  table,  the  inspector  made  an 
entry  of  the  time  at  which  it  had  been  found,  the 
numbers  and  initials  of  the  constable,  then  turned  and 
catechised  the  old  man,  who  had  been  patiently  wait- 
ing, with  the  child  buttoned  inside  his  coat,  which, 
having  originally  been  made  for  a  man  thrice  his  size, 
was  plenty  large  enough  to  cover  them  both. 

"What  s  your  name?" 

"Samuel  Growls,"  replied  the  hunchback,  gruffly. 

"Residence?" 

"I  lives  at  No.  2  Paradise  Alley,  St.  Giles'." 

"Trade  ?"  asked  the  inspector,  pausing  with  pen  read , 
for  a  fresh  entry. 

"Bootmaker.    Repairs  neatly  executed,"  promptly  an 
swered  the  queer  old  man,  evidently  quoting  from  sonu 
inscription. 

"And  you  offer  to  take  this ;"  the  inspector  broke  off 

to.,  glance  at  the  child  to  ascertain  its  sex,  and  continued 
—"boy ;  and  you  will  come  up  before  the  board  when  re- 
quired, to  give  an  account  of  him?" 

"I'm  willinV  said  the  hunchback,  "though  I  don't 
know  what  the  board  is.  Oh,  yes,  I'll  come  up  to  give 
an  account  of  him,  certainly,  when  required.  Is  there 
anything  to  pay?" 

"To  pay?"  repeated  the  inspector,  with  a  smile. 


Stella's  Fortune.  63 

"Yes;  dooty,  or  government  tax?  There  generally  is 
when  one  o'  your  chaps  asks  kewestions,  and  writes  them 
down  in  a  book." 

''No,  there  is  nothing  to  pay,"  replied  the  inspector. 
"Take  care  of  the  child." 

The  old  man  rammed  his  battered  hat  tightly  upon  his 
forehead,  and,  picking  up  the  child  again — who  had  ceased 
crying  to  stare  with  ecstatic  and  enchanted  admiration  at 
the  policeman's  buttons  and  fierce  whiskers — left  the 
station. 

Five  minutes  after  he  was  gone  with  his  little  burden 
of  adoption,  a  man  rushed  in,  and  with  clinched  hands 
and  white  face  confronted  the  inspector. 

The  man  was  dressed  like  a  respectable  mechanic,  was 
young,  rather  good  looking,  and  quite  sober. 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  as  if  to  gain  breath,  then,  in 
a  voice  which  sounded  harsh  and  unnatural,  as  if  sub- 
dued by  a  great  effort,  said: 

"Where  is  she?" 

"Who?"  asked  the  inspector,  eying  the  intruder  with 
official  coolness. 

"The — the  woman,  the  dead  woman!"  said  the  man, 
his  voice  broken  and  spasmodic. 

The  inspector  jerked  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder. 

"In  the  dead  room,  my  man.    Do  you  want  to  see  her?" 

The  man  motioned  with  his  hand. 

'' Jones,"  said  the  inspector,  "Jones,  where  are  you? 
Here,  I'll  go  myself,"  and  taking  a  key  from  a  peg  he 
led  the  way  to  the  dead  room. 

A  small  gas  jet  threw  a  sickly  light  upon  a  plain  table 
with  its  still  and  ghostly  burden. 

The  man  pushed  the  inspector  aside  with  trembling 
hand,  moved  the  cloth  from  the  quiet,  peaceful  face,  and 
gazed,  with  a  face  that  was  scarcely  less  white  and  set, 
down  upon  it. 

A  silence  fell,  so  intense  that  the  clock  in  the  front 
office  could  be  heard  ticking  like  a  human  voice ;  then, 
with  terrific  suddenness  the  man's  passion  burst  forth. 

He  grasped  the  inspector's  arm,  and,  glancing  wildly 
«t  him,  pointed  to  the  dead  woman. 

"Look!  that  is  murder!  You  hear  me?  That  is  mur- 


64  Stella's  Fortune. 

der!  Look  how  she  lies — so  quiet  and  calm,  as  if  she'd 
died  in  her  sleep!  But  she  didn't;  she  was  murdered! 
Confound  him  for  a  wolf  and  fiend,  whoever  he  is.  He's 
killed  her ! — killed  the  gentlest,  sweetest-hearted  girl  that 
ever  drew  breath.  Oh  Heaven  pursue  him,  wherever  he 
is,  for  a  brute  and  a  murderer,  and  bring  him  to  the  gal- 
lows! Lucy!  Lucy!  Don't  die!  don't  die,  or  I  shall  go 
mad !  Don't  die  till  you  tell  me  who  did  it  or  I  shall  kill 
myself " 

He  threw  himself  down  beside  the  plain  table,  and 
clutched  the  overhanging  sheet  in  a  paroxysm  of  despair 
and  rage. 

The  inspector  laid  his  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"Come,  come,  my  good  man ;  don't  take  on  so.  She's 
dead,  you  can  see  that.  Don't  get  into  such  a  state  about 
it.  Did  you  know  her?" 

"Know  her?"  retorted  the  man,  turning  his  wild  eyes 
upon  the  inspector.  "Know  her,  man?  I  loved  her! 
Loved  her  better  than  mother,  father,  or  anything  in  the 
world  beside.  Know  her?  I'd  given  my  life  fifty  times 
over  to  'a'  saved  her  from  a  moment's  pa^n.  Oh,  Lucy, 
Lucy!"  and,  overcome  by  grief,  he  bowed  his  face  again 
and  groaned  aloud. 

"Your  sweetheart?"  said  the  inspector. 

He  made  a  gesture  with  his  bent  head  in  token  of  assent 

The  inspector  coughed  behind  his  hand.  He  knew  the 
story  at  once.  Tis  the  old,  old  one;  a  fiend  in  angel's 
shape,  and  frail  humanity's  fall. 

"What  was  her  name  ?"  he  asked. 

The  man  rose  suddenly,  calmed  and  nerved  by  the  ques- 
tion. 

"What's  that  to  you?"  he  asked,  with  a  low.  angry 
voice.  "Ask  her;  if  she  can't  tell  you,  I  won't.  D'ye 
think  she  hid  her  shame  all  these  years  for  me  to  bellow 
it  to  the  world  now?  No!  she's  dead,  and  past  saving, 
but  her  name's  good  yet.  We  poor  folks  think  a  good 
deal  o'  that,  and  she  shall  keep  it.  Don't  ask  me  no  ques- 
tions ;  I  sha'n't  answer  them." 

He  picked  up  his  cap  from  the  fleer,  and,  holding  it- 
pressed  to  his  panting  breast,  took  a  step  toward  the 
door,  his  white  face  still  turned  to  the  dead  woman. 


Stella's  Fortune.  6$ 

The  inspector  remained  silent  for  a  moment,  then  as  he 
covered  the  still  face  again,  he  said,  quietly: 

"There'll  be  an  inquest,  young  man ;  you'll  have  to  at- 
tend as  a  witness,  if  you  know  anything  of  the  deceased 
or  how  she  came  to  her  death;  it'll  be  'exposure  to  cold 
and  insufficient  nourishment/  I'm  thinking,  for  all  your 
murder." 

The  man  had  reached  the  door,  but  turned  again  his 
flashing  eyes,  his  hand  with  the  cap  in  it  extended 
toward  heaven. 

"Call  it  what  you  like,"  he  said,  "it's  murder  all  the 
same;  you  can  kill  without  JK  ?<:on,  or  pistol,  or  a  knife; 
you  can  kill  by  shame  and  misery  an'  neglect,  an'  that's 
how  he  killed  her.  He  led  her  to  her  ruin  with  false 
speeches  and  wicked  falsehoods,  and  he  left  her  to  die  o' 
hunger  and  cold  in  the  street !  You  call  it  exposure — you 
brings  in  a  verdict  to  suit  your  feelings ;  I  call  ft  murder, 
an'  Heaven  calls  it  murder,  too !" 

Then  he  thrust  the  cap  upon  his  head  and  staggered 
out. 

The  inspector,  used  to  the  exhibition  of  passion  and 
grief,  gravely  lowered  the  gas,  relocked  the  door,  and 
seated  himself  in  the  front  office  ready  for  the  next 
charge  or  report. 

The  man  stumbled  into  the  dark,  cold  street  and  rushed 
onward,  his  hands  clinched  at  his  side,  his  white  lips  mut- 
tering incoherent  threats  and  lamentations,  in  which  the 
name  of  Lucy  was  alone  intelligible. 

Passion  of  all  kinds  is  exhausting ;  his,  so  wild,  so  deep 
and  so  terrible  in  its  utter  abandon,  wearied  him  out  be- 
fore he  had  walked  a  mile.  He  stopped,  staggered,  and 
caught  at  a  lamppost,  against  which  he  leaned  his  burning 
forehead  and  gave  way  to  a  burst  of  tears. 

A  policeman,  who  had  been  eying  him  for  some  few 
minutes,  tramped  up  with  voice  and  hand  of  authority : 

"Come,  my  man,  move  on!" 

The  man  paid  no  heed;  the  words  had  fallen  on  his 
ears  unmeaningly. 

"Come,"  repeated  the  policeman,  "I  can't  have  drunken 
men  obstructing  the  thoroughfare;  you  must  move  on." 


•56  Stellcfs  Fortune. 

Unwisely  he  laid  his  hand  roughly  upon  the  presumedly 
drunken  man's  shoulder. 

Had  he  confined  himself  to  words  he  might  have  re- 
mained, haranguing  and  remonstrating  all  night,  but  any- 
thing in  the  shape  of  a  blow  was  the  spark  of  fire  upon 
the  barrel  of  gunpowder;  the  excited  man  turned  with  a 
mad  light  in  his  eyes  and  felled  the  policeman  to  the 
ground. 

"Keep  off!"  he  cried,  shaking  his  head  wildly.  "It's 
murder,  I  tell  you,  downright  murder!  You  killed  her, 
you  fiend,  and  you  shall  pay  for  it!" 

The  policeman,  astounded  by  the  suddenness  of  the  at- 
tack and  the  address,  shouted  for  help  and  struggled  to 
his  feet. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  crowd,  which  always  seems  to  be 
ready  at  a  moment's  notice,  was  on  the  spot  asking  ques- 
tions, shouting,  pushing  forward  in  excited  confusion. 

In  the  midst  stood  the  policeman,  firmly  grasping  the 
man,  who  stared  around  him  with  a  dazed,  bewildered 
air  as  perfectly  unconscious  of  the  cause  of  the  excite- 
ment as  many  of  the  spectators. 

"Come,  are  you  drunk  or  what  ?"  asked  the  policeman, 
too  conversant  with  his  duty  to  resent  the  blow  he  h?  '  re- 
ceived. "What's  the  matter  with  you?  Perhaps  I'd  bet- 
ter run  you  in.  I  don't  like  to  do  it,  for  you're  certain  of 
six  months,  you  know,  but  if  I  leave  yer  you'll  be  doing 
some  damage  to  somebody.  Here,  you'd  better  come 
along,  I  think." 

And  he  proceeded  to  clear  a  passage  through  the  crowd 
in  the  direction  of  the  police  station. 

At  that  moment  a  gentleman,  who  had  been  standing 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd,  quietly  and  composedly 
watching  the  two  center  figures,  stepped  up. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  asked.    "Intoxicated?" 

There  was  a  tone  of  command  and  an  air  of  power  in 
the  speaker's  voice  and  manner  which  went  straight  to 
the  officer's  respect. 

"I  don't  exactlv  know,  sir.  I  found  him  a  leaning  agin 
the  lamppost,  and  happened  to  tell  him  to  move  on,  when 
he  turns  and  knocks  me  down.  It's  assault  on  the  police 
if  it  ain't  drunk  and  incapable,  but  I  don't  want  to  be  hard 
upon  him——" 


Stella's  Fortune.  67 

"No,"  said  the  gentleman,  who  had  been  watching  the 
white,  bewildered  face  and  wild  eyes  attentively  during 
the  explanation.  "He  looks  respectable.  It  would  be  a 
pity  to  ruin  him.  Where  did  you  find  him,  you  say?  Ah, 
well,  if  you  like  to  trust  him  to  me  I'll  see  that  he  goes 
home  or  somewhere  where  he  cannot  do  any  harm." 

"It's  very  good  o'  you,  sir,"  said  the  policeman,  "and 
he  ought  to  consider  himself  lucky.  Here,  will  you  go 
with  the  gentleman?" 

"Go  where?"  asked  the  man,  roused  from  his  half-un- 
conscious state  by  the  rough  shake,  and  staring  at  the 
policeman  with  changing  color.  "N — not  to  prison ;  I'm 
a  respectable  man.  What  have  I  been  doing?  Nothing 
that  you  can  lock  me  up  for?  Oh,  Heaven,  I  haven't  dis- 
graced myself?" 

"Very  nearly,  my  fine  fellow,"  said  the  clear,  cold  voice 
of  the  gentleman,  as  the  policeman  dispersed  the  crowd 
and  himself  moved  on.  "An  assault  on  the  police  will 
ruin  a  very  good  character  if  it  be  followed  by  six  months' 
hard  labor.'* 

"Go  to  prison  like  a  common  thief !"  exclaimed  the  poor 
fellow,  trembling  like  a  leaf,  and  wiping  the  cold  beads  of 
perspiration  from  his  fevered  forehead.  "Oh,  no,  no;  I 
was  mad,  stark,  staring  mad.  Sir,  you've  saved  me ;  how 
can  I  thank  you  ?  But  I  do  thank  you ;  I'm  a  poor  man, 
bat  my  character  is  something  to  me — and  six  months' 
hard  labor  like  a  common  thief!" 

He  shuddered. 

The  gentleman  smiled  behind  his  well-gloved  hand  and 
gianced  at  his  watch. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?   What  is  your  name? 

The  man  suddenly  froze  into  a  sullen  mood,  though  his 
gratitude  struggled  for  expression. 

"Stephen  Hargraves,"  he  replied. 

"Where  do  you  live?" 

"Anywhere,"  was  the  answer. 

"You  are  out  of  work?" 

The  man  nodded  sullenly  again. 

The  gentleman  eyed  him,  and  thought  rapidly:  "A 
strong,  stout  fellow,  driven  to  degeneration  by  something, 
for  I  saw  the  whole  scene  and  know  the  signs.  He's 
grateful  for  my  little  piece  of  benevolence,  will  be  more 


68  Stella's  Fortune. 

grateful  still  when  he  comes  to  think  it  over  calmly.  A 
man  worth  having1  about  one ;  by  the  look  of  his  face  un- 
scrupulous, honest  to  his  benefactor,  daring.  A  tool 
ready  to  my  hand;  I'll  secure  it."  These  were  the 
thoughts,  and  he  acted  upon  them. 

"You  are  out  of  work,  you  say.  Would  you  like  to 
enter  my  service  ?  I  don't  want  a  man  of  your  sort  par- 
ticularly, but  it  seems  a  pity  that  a  fine,  strong  fellow  like 
you  should  go  to  the  bad  for  a  little  weakness  for  the 
bottle " 

"I  haven't  been  drinking,"  the  man  said,  looking  up 
suddenly. 

The  gentleman  smiled. 

"Never  mind.  What  do  you  say?  Will  you  enter  my 
service — yes  or  no?"  . 

"Yes,  thank  you,  sir,"  said  the  man.  "I'm  skeered 
a  bit  to-night,  but  I  understands  what  you've  done  for 
me,  and  what  you've  saved  me  from.  If  it  hadn't  a  been 
for  your  kind  word  I  should  a  been  lying  in  prison,  dis- 
graced for  life.  I'll  serve  you  with  all  my  heart,  ay,  and 
faithfully  unto  death." 

"That's  right,"  said  the  gentleman.  "Come  to  me  in 
half  an  hour.  Can  you  read?" 

The  man  nodded. 

"Take  that  card  then.   Remember — half  an  hour." 

The  man  took  the  card,  still  with  a  confused  air,  and 
the  gentleman,  with  a  faint  smile,  walked  slowly  away. 

Stephen  Hargraves  carried  the  card  to  the  lamppost 
and,  rubbing  his  eyes  with  an  impatient,  trembling  hand, 
stared  at  it. 

"Sir  Richard  Wildfang,  Bart.,  Grosvenor  Square. 
Half  an  hour,"  he  muttered.  "Oh,  Lucy,  if  my  hand  an* 
heart  wasn't  so  full  o'  you  I  could  feel  grateful  to  the 
kind  gentleman  as  saved  me  with  a  word  from  prison  and 
disgrace,  but  I  can't  think  o'  nothing.  I'm  anigh  mad 
when  I  mind  you  a  lying  so  quiet  and  cold — dead !  dead !" 

Muttering  thus  he  turned  toward  Grosvenor  Square, 
his  head  drooping  upon  his  breast,  his  heart  full  of  the 
woman  who  was  lost  to  him  and  herself. 

To  Grosvenor  Square  Lucy's  lover  went  to  enter  the 
service  of  Lucy's  betrayer.  Truly  Fate  had  cast  her  dies 
with  a  reckless  hand. 


CHAPTER  X. 

A   PiCTURE  DF  POVERTY. 

Love  may  choose  for  its  temple 
A  pile  of  rough-hewn  stone, 

And,  by  its  presence,  make 
The  rude  habitation  noble. 

No.  2  Paradise  Alley  did  not  in  appearance  or  real 
comfort  correspond  with  its  somewhat  alluring  title. 

Paradise  Alley  was  narrow,  dingy  and  dirty.  The 
houses  were  squalid,  its  windows  were  small  and  opaque 
with  dust,  its  doors  rickety  and  finger-worn,  and  there 
was  an  air  of  poverty  and  ceaseless,  joyless  toil  and  suf- 
fering clinging  to  every  one. 

Number  two  was  no  exception  to  the  doleful  rule, 
although  it  bore  by  way  of  advertisement  and  orna- 
ment a  brilliantly  painted  signboard  on  its  ground 
floor  window,  which  announced  to  all  who  cared  to 
know  that  Samuel  Growls  resided  there,  and  did  re- 
pairs neatly  and  quickly. 

In  addition  to  the  signboard  there  were  curtains, 
dingy  and  threadbare  'tis  true,  but  still  curtains,  to 
the  window,  and  a  small  bird,  naturally  of  a  yellow 
cast  of  countenance,  but  rendered  dingy  and  gray  by 
the  influences  of  his  paradisiacal  surroundings,  twit' 
tered  in  a  cage  suspended  from  the  curtain  pole. 

There  was  the  glimmer  of  a  fire  penetrating  the 
curtains,  and  altogether  number  two,  though  -miserable 
enough  in  all  conscience,  looked  the  cleanest  and  most 
habitable  of  all  the  houses. 

The  spirit  of  Christmas  had  penetrated  even  Para- 
dise Alley,  and  Old  Sam  as  he  trotted  beneath  its  en- 
trance with  his  burden  under  his  coat,  chuckled  as  he 
saw  a  muffin  man  and  a  boy  with  flags  enticing  the 
dwellers  to  purchse. 

Coming  up  the  alley  with  his  disengaged  arm  swing- 
ing beside  his  short  body,  Old  Sam  ran  up  the  steps, 


TO  Stella's  Fortune. 

pulled  a  string  that  projected  through  a  hole  in  tke 
door  of  number  two,  and  entered  the  room  where  were 
the  curtain  and  the  canary.  Then,  out  of  breath,  be 
unbuttoned  his  coat  and  peeped  within  it. 

"Bless  his  heart,  he's  asleep,"  he  chuckled.  "How 
like  a  hangel  he  be !  He  only  wants  gilt  paper  wings 
and  a  piece  o'  elastic  glued  to  his  back  to  be  a  hangel 
right  through.  Now  I  wonder  what  he'll  do  when 
he  wakes?  I  don't  feel  quite  easy  in  my  mind,  'cas 
I'm  not  used  to  children,  and  I  might  make  some  mis- 
take. Perhaps  he'd  like  a  muffin  or  some  flags.  Here, 
I'll  chance  it ;  it  won't  do  no  harm  anyway,"  and  soft- 
ly setting  the  child  down  upon  a  rickety  old  sofa,  and 
covering  him  up  with  the  tablecloth,  which  he 
snatched  from  the  table  for  the  purpose,  the  hunch- 
back ran  out  of  the  room  and  down  into  the  alley,  and 
returned  in  a  few  minutes  with  a  pile  of  muffins,  three 
pig's  trotters  (warm),  and  three  gayly  colored  flags. 
"There,"  he  exclaimed,  with  an  air  of  satisfaction, 
"there's  a  supper  fit  for  a  prince,  leave  alone  a  han- 
gel! What  can  be  nicer  than  trotter  an'  muffins  for 
a  child?  Nothing — at  least  I  should  think  not,"  he 
hesitated,  gazing  at  the  comestibles.  "They're  soft 
and  sticky,  an'  what  you  might  call  nourishin' — no 
bones  in  the  muffins  to  choke  him,  bless  his  heart,  and 
none  in  the  trotters  if  I  takes  'em  out  carefully.  Now 
where  shall  I  stick  these  flags,  eh?" 

He  looked  around  with  his  head  on  one  side,  very 
much  like  a  jackdaw,  again,  and  trotted  up  and  down 
the  room  with  his  flags  in  his  hand. 

At  last  he  decided  to  stick  one  in  a  cracked  vase  on 
the  mantelshelf,  another  in  the  bread,  and  the  last  he 
reserved  for  the  pile  of  muffins  and  trotters. 

Chuckling  to  himself  and  glancing  at  the  sleeping 
child  occasionally,  going  about  on  tiptoe  all  the  while 
and  expressing  his  delight  in  a  wonderful,  strange 
and  grotesque  pantomime,  he  laid  a  white  cloth  on  the 
table,  set  the  kettle  boiling,  toasted  the  muffins,  set 
three  candles  alight  in  various  parts  of  the  room,  and 
then  set  himself  beside  the  couch  to  wait  for  the 
awakening  of  his  lord  and  master,  the  young  orphan 
boy. 


Stelltfs  Fortune.  71 

Presently  the  child  awoke  with  flushed  cheeks,  spark- 
ling eyes  and  a  happy  forgetfulness  of  his  bereave- 
ment. 

His  large  eyes  rested  on  the  grim,  wrinkled,  homely 
face  of  the  old  man  beside  him,  then  twinkled  merrily, 
and  the  urchin  smiled  and  held  out  his  hand?. 

Old  Sam  picked  him  up  and  pressed  him  to  his 
breast  in  an  ecstasy  of  gratitude. 

"Now  that's  what  I  call  kind  o'  ye,  now.  You  might 
a  woke  humpy  and  disagreeable,  and  no  wonder  neith- 
er, but  this  here  is  what  I  call  behavin'  handsome,  and 
I'm  much  obliged  to  you." 

He  chuckled  a  little  nervously  and  set  the  child  on 
the  chair. 

He  was  a  fine,  healthy  little  fellow,  with  a  chubby 
round  face  and  a  little  rosebud  mouth. 

Old  Sam  thought  he  never  saw  such  beauty,  no,  not 
even  in  the  picture  shops,  and  he  stood  before  the 
child,  making  funny  faces  for  him  for  full  five  minutes, 
tmtil  the  little  one  perforce  laughed  outright. 

Then  the  old  man  joined  in,  and  the  spirit  of  Christ- 
mas echoed  it  unheard  somewhere  about  their  heads. 

"An'  now  what  is  it  going  to  be  to  start  on,  my 
hangel?  Is  it  muffins  or  trotters?  I'm  sorry  it  ain't 
no  better,  nothing  in  the  seed  Cake  and  raspberry  tart 
line.  But  you  see,"  and  his  voice  shook  a  little,  "you 
was  so  unexpected — but  there,  never  mind  that. 
You're  happy,  ain't  you?  Are  you  better?" 

The  child  laughed  as  if  he  understood  every  word 
but  clambered  off  the  chair  and  clung  to  the  old  man's 
knee. 

"Law!  if  he  don't  want  to  eat  his  tea  on  my  knee," 
exclaimed  Sam,  in  a  delightful  whisper."!  never  heard 
tell  of  such  an  intelligent  little  chap." 

Hte  lifted  him  up  and  with  unpracticed  fingers 
manipulated  a  trotter,  made  it  up  with  a  muffin,  and 
presented  a  small  portion  of  it  on  a  fork. 

"Here,  try  that.  Make  yourself  at  home.  I  ain't 
put  no  mustard  because  I  don't  know  if  you  likes  it, 
an'  mustard  is  rather  a  nasty,  deceivin'  thing  if  you 
ain't  up  to  it.  What,  you  like  the  trotter,  do  you? 


72  Stelltfs  Fortune. 

That's  hearty,  too.  Ah !  this  is  what  I  call  enjoyment ! 
Have  a  cup  of  tea?" 

But  the  boy  would  not  drink  out  of  a  cup  of  his 
own  and  preferred  to  sip  now  and  then  from  Sam's ; 
he  also  declared  in  favor  of  muffins  without  the  addi- 
tion of  trotters,  and,  having  made  a  good  tea  for  one 
of  his  tender  years,  raised  his  intelligent  eyes  and  pro- 
ceeded to  take  a  mental  inventory  of  the  room. 

Sam  watched  the  direction  of  his  eyes  anxiously. 

"P'raps  now  he  sees  it's  a  strange  place  he'll  cut  up 
rough,"  he  muttered,  anxiously. 

But  no,  the  little  fellow  was  determined  to  be 
pleased,  and  as  he  pointed  to  the  bird  found  his  voice. 

"What's  tat?" 

"That!"  answered  Sam,  delighted;  "that's  a  bird, 
a  kinairy." 

Then,  as  the  child  looked  puzzled,  he  repeated  the 
answer  and  went  so  far  as  to  spell  it. 

"K-i-n-a-i-r-y.  A  yellow  bird.  He  sings — at  least, 
he  did  ought,  but  he's  a  hen  I'm  afraid.  Never  mind, 
don't  take  it  to  heart,  we'll  get  one  to-morrow  as  'ull 
sing  like  one  o'clock.  To-morrow,  that  reminds  me! 
Why,  what's  to-morrow?  Christmas  Day!  Christ- 
mas Day,  and  we  ain't  got  no  plum-puddin'!  Why, 
what  are  we  a'  thinkin'  of?  Never  mind,  don't  be 
afeerd;  we'll  go  a  marketin'  d'rectly  and  get  such  a 
fine  sight  o'  things  as  'ull  take  us  all  day  to  eat  'em! 
Why  shouldn't  old  Sam  Growls  have  a  Christmas  as 
well  as  other  people,  now  he's  got  a  family?  Plum- 
puddin'!  Dash  me,  he  shall  have  two!" 

Then  he  took  the  child  upon  his  bent  shoulder  and 
capered  around  the  room  with  him,  stopping  at  the 
various  articles  of  interest  to  explain  their  various 
uses  and  good  points,  and  starting  off  again  with  a 
jerk  and  a  shout,  until  the  little  fellow  was  in  a  flush 
of  happiness  and  the  room  was  filled  with  childhood's 
happy  laughter. 

Then  he  grew  tired.  The  laughter  ceased,  and  the 
old  man  knew  it  was  bedtime. 

There  was  a  mysterious  piece  of  furniture  in  one 
corner  of  the  room  which  had  the  appearance  of  a 
wardrobe  with  the  front  falling  out. 


Stelltfs  Fortune.  73 

Old  Sam  pulled  this  out  and  let  down  a  bed. 

In  the  middle  of  this  he  laid  his  little  charge,  and  cov- 
ered him  up  warmly  and  snugly. 

Then  he  stood  at  a  little  distance  away  and  considered. 

Could  he  leave  him  safely  while  the  ingredients  for  the 
pudding  and  the  Christmas  feast  were  procured? 

He  decided  to  risk  it,  and,  taking  the  precaution  to 
blockade  the  little  bed  with  all  the  available  chairs,  he 
buttoned  the  threadbare  coat  around  his  crooked  form, 
rammed  a  battered  hat  upon  his  gnarled,  grizzled  head, 
and  sallied  out  into  the  streets,  where  all  the  children 
shrank  from  his  ferocious  appearance  and  even  grown-up 
folks  drew  aside  to  let  him  pass  as  if  he  were  something 
to  be  feared  as  well  as  pitied. 

In  a  short  time  he  returned  laden,  and,  chuckling  like  a 
goblin,  threw  his  packages  of  purchases  upon  the  table. 

"Asleep  still,  bless  his  heart ;  well,  all  the  better,  though, 
mind  you,  I  was  foolish  enough  to  hope  as  he'd  been  up, 
laughin'  an'  playin';  but  there'll  be  all  the  more  time  to 
make  the  puddin'.  I  ain't  quite  sure  and  certain  how  to 
set  about  it,  for  I  ain't  what  you  might  cal  a  hexperienced 
cook ;  he !  he !  but  if  I  follows  the  direction  of  the  chap  in 
the  shop  most  like  I  shall  turn  out  a  first-rate  'un.  Now, 
let's  see.  Chop  this  'ere  lump  of  suet.  Well,  I  knows 
that,  as  of  course  you  couldn't  put  it  in  whole,  or  else 
some  unfortunate  indiwidual  'ud  have  all  suet  and  no 
plums.  Cl^ip  the  suet ;  stone  them  'ere  plums — that's  the 
worst  job  o'  all ;  put  in  this  'ere  flour  and  the  currants  an' 
the  lemon  peel,  an'  stir  'em  up  with  a  trifle  o'  treacle; 
then  bile  in  a  clean  pocket  handkercher  for  six  hours! 
He !  he !  I  ain't  forgot.  And  now  there's  a  nice  hevenin's 
work  before  me." 

Whistling  softly,  and  going  about  on  tiptoe,  he  set 
about  his  task  with  a  gravity  and  importance  which  were 
the  sublimity  of  the  absurd.  He  talked  all  the  while  to 
himself,  and  glanced  at  the  bed  at  intervals  with  anxious 
solicitude. 

"What  should  I  do  if  he  was  to  wake,  bless  his  heart?" 
he  muttered,  suddenly,  with  a  look  of  dismay.  "I  couldn't 
pick  him  up  with  my  hands  all  over  suet  an'  plums  an* 
stuff.  What  a  beauty  he  is — I  never  see  such  a  boy,  an' 


94  StelMs  Fortune. 

hi  his  ways  there  ain't  another  like  him.  Hello,  I'm  ji 
thinking  as  I  don't  know  his  name,  and  it  ain't  likely  he 
will  condescend  to  tell  me.  I  suppose  it's  marked  in  his 
pretty  little  things.  I'll  look  when  I've  got  this  'ere  stuff 
off  my  hands." 

The  child's  clothes  lay  on  the  sofa,  where  they  had 
fallen  when  they  were  taken  off,  and  Sam  picked  them  up 
tenderly  and  examined  them. 

"No.  No  name  on  'em.  Nothing  to  hidentify  him  as 
they  says  in  the  p'lice  reports.  Hello !  what's  this  ?"  and 
he  turned  the  frock  inside  out.  "A  bundle  o'  papers  tied 
in  the  lining.  Letters— old  letters  and  a  ring.  Well, 
whatever  they  are  they  belong  to  him,  and  I  shan't  read 
'em  or  interfere  with  'em.  Here,  let's  put  'em  away  some- 
where safe  and  sound,"  and  with  a  hurried  nervousness 
he  stowed  them  away  in  a  corner  of  an  old  cupboard. 
There  must  have  been  some  reason  for  his  determination 
not  to  read  the  papers?  There  was.  In  the  old  man's 
heart  had  risen  the  fear  that  he  might  find  some  clew  to 
the  child's  parentage  and  belonging — nay,  more,  perhaps 
the  name  of  some  person  to  whom  he  would  be  in  duty 
bound  to  deliver  the  child. 

The  bare  idea  of  losing  what  had  become  so  precious  to 
him  was  so  terrible  that  he  sighed  with  absolute  relief  as 
he  shut  the  cupboard  door  and  returned  to  the  table,  mut- 
tering: 

"Mind,  I  didn't  read  'em.  I  don't  know  who  he  belongs 
to !  I  had  him  give  to  me  by  the  proper  authorities,  and 
I've  got  a  right  to  keep  him!" 

At  last  his  love's  labor  was  accomplished,  the  pudding 
was  made! 

In  the  morning  the  child  awoke,  curious,  autocratic. 

But  Sam  was  ready  for  him,  and  had  his  breakfast 
waiting. 

Every  mouthful  the  child  ate  the  old  man  chuckled 
over,  every  word  he  said — and  the  little  fellow  spoke, 
and  in  his  lisping  way  he  had  a  great  deal  to  say — the  old 
man  repeated  with  delight.  He  would  not  lose  a  word — 
not  a  syllable. 

Once  the  boy,  out  of  sheer  excitement,  began  to  whim- 
per. Then  Old  Sam  was  overwhelmed  with  despair,  and 


Stella's  Fortune.  75 

in  the  utterest  misery  and  concern  nearly  killed  himself  in 
the  way  of  grimaces  and  acrobatic  feats  in  dispelling  the 
slight  cloud. 

After  breakfast  he  took  him,  wrapped  inside  his  coat; 
for  a  walk  in  the  park,  and,  heedless  of  the  laughter  and 
pitying  smiles  of  the  crowd,  pointed  out  to  the  child 
everything  worthy  of  note — even  to  the  stone  Achilles. 

Trotting,  jumping,  running,  hopping,  he  proceeded  in 
every  possible  attitude  to  win  smiles  and  laughter  from 
his  precious  burden. 

Then  they  returned  to  dinner. 

With  what  delight  the  old  man  set  out  the  piece  of  beef 
which  he  had  brought  brown  and  smoking  from  the 
baker's ;  how  he  welcomed  every  sign  of  pleasure  on  the 
childish  face,  and  to  what  a  pinnacle  of  ecstasy  did  his 
joy  and  exultation  rise  when  the  pudding  was  uncovered, 
and  the  child  actually  clapped  its  hands  and  shouted  with 
delight ! 

Oh,  spirit  of  Christmas,  linger  long  in  that  little  room, 
and  pour  down  upon  the  gentle  heart  which  beats  within 
the  deformed  and  dwarfed  body  of  the  little  shoemaker, 
that  joy  and  peace  which  only  thou  canst  give! 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE  ELIGIBLE   BARONET. 

A  bold  stroke  for  a  fortune! 
Faint  heart  never  won  fair  lady, 
Or  grasped  the  golden  gains. 

On  the  morning  following  Christmas  Day  the  Vale  was 
stirring  betimes.  Stella  was  not  a  late  sleeper  at  any 
time;  this  morning  she  felt  particularly  wakeful. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  had  slept  but  little  all  night 
There  was  something  in  the  idea  of  the  mysterious  and 
handsome  Mr.  Felton  being  in  the  next  room,  which 
might  have  kept  her  awake  if  she  had  not  the  disquieting 
knowledge  of  Sir  Richard's  propinquity  also  to  dispel  her 
weariness. 

In  the  latter  fact  she  could  scarcely  find  excuse  tangible 
enough  to  her  own  satisfaction  to  account  for  the  uneasi- 
ness which  assailed  her  whenever  Sir  Richard  was  near 
her. 

She  knew  that  she  started  and  shuddered  at  his  en- 
trance last  night  as  much  as  she  had  blushed  and  thrilled 
with  pleasure  at  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Felton. 

Had  she  been  candid  with  herself  she  could  have  ex- 
plained it  by  confessing  that  she  hated  the  one  and  already 
loved  the  other;  'out  young  ladies  are  not  inclined  to  be 
candid  on  such  topics,  even  to  themselves,  and  Stella  rose 
and  entered  the  breakfast-room,  as  unreasoning  in  her 
dislike  of  Sir  Richard  as  ever. 

The  breakfast-room  was  empty. 

"No  one  up  yet?"  she  asked  of  the  butler. 

"No  one,  miss,  except  Mr.  Felton,"  he  replied. 

"And  where  is  he?"  asked  Stella. 

"I  don't  know,  miss.  He  was  here  not  many  minutes 
ago,  inquiring  after  Sir  Richard's  man." 

"The  man  who  hurt  his  leg?"  said  Stella. 

"Yes,  miss,"  said  Mr.  Proudley.    "And  a  very  strange 

76 


Stella's  Fortune.  77 

man  he  is ;  there  is  no  making  anything  out  of  him  at  all." 

Stella's  look  encouraged  him  to  proceed;  she  did  not 
know  how  it  was,  but  truly  anything  concerning  Sir 
Richard  had  a  strange,  unpleasant  interest  for  her. 

"He's  the  most  disagreeable  man  I  ever  met,  miss.  You 
can't  get  a  civil  word  out  of  him ;  and  as  close  as  a  jew- 
eler's safe." 

Stella  smiled. 

"You  should  not  bother  him  with  questions,  Proudley," 
she  said. 

"I,  miss  ?  I'd  scorn  to  do  so,"  retorted  the  butler.  "But 
when  a  man  turns  like  a  wild  beast  on  you  for  simply 
asking  him  by  what  name  he'd  like  to  be  called  }'ou  can't 
help  noticing  it.  Will  you  have  the  breakfast,  miss  ?" 

"No,"  said  Stella.  "Not  until  mamma  comes  down. 
Is  it  thawing?" 

"No,  miss ;  quite  a  frost." 

"Then  I  will  go  out  for  a  little.  Tell  them,  please,  that 
I  am  in  the  garden." 

Then,  wrapping  herself  up  in  a  thick  Red  Riding 
Hood  cloak,  and  drawing  the  hood  over  her  beautiful 
head,  she  opened  the  French  window  and  ran  lightly  down 
the  steps. 

At  the  moment  a  man  came  limping  out  of  the  lower 
hall  and  stood  aside  to  let  her  pass. 

It  was  Sir  Richard's  servant. 

Made  curious  by  Proudley's  account  of  him,  she 
Stopped  and  accosted  him. 

"How  is  your  foot  this  morning?" 

"Better,"  said  the  man,  in  a  sullen  tone,  just  glancing 
up  at  her  from  under  his  thick  eyebrows,  without  relaxing1 
a  muscle  of  his  constrained,  trouble-lined  face. 

"I  am  glad  of  that,"  said  Stella.  "You  must  have  suf- 
fered much  pain.  I  hope  they  made  you  comfortable." 

The  man  nodded. 

"Comfortable  enough,  I  thank  you." 

Stella  looked  at  him  with  her  gentle,  pitying1  eyes  and 
went  on. 

At  the  turn  of  the  walk  she  nearly  ran  into  the  arms  of 
Mr.  Felton,  who  was  looking  in  the  opposite  direction. 


Fortune. 

They  pulled  tip  with  a  mutual  laugh  of  amusement; 
Stella  held  out  her  hand. 

"I  beg-  your  pardon.  I  thought  I  was  in  sole  posses- 
sion of  the  garden  at  this  time  in  the  morning." 

"And  I  pray  for  forgiveness  on  the  same  score,*'  he 
returned,  laughing  and  looking  at  her  with  something 
more  than  admiration  for  the  fresh,  beautiful  face, 
crowned  with  its  sweet  blush  rose.  "I  have  been  having 
a  trot  around — -a  preliminary  canter,  as  they  say  in  racing 
circles." 

"And  I  am  getting  one,"  said  Stella. 

"May  I  be  allowed  to  prolong  mine  and  join  you?"  he 
asked. 

And  they  set  off,  walking  slowly  now. 

"Mrs.  Newton  is  not  up  yet,  I  suppose?"  he  said, 
breaking  off  suddenly  in  the  middle  of  a  frank  and  humor- 
ous description  of  some  artistic  experience. 

"No,"  said  Stella. 

"I  am  sorry  for  that,  as  I  fear  I  shall  not  see  her  be- 
fore I  go." 

"Go — where?"  she  asked,  with  disappointment  2n  her 
face  and  voice. 

"Home,"  he  answered,  with  a  smile.  "Miss  Newton," 
he  added,  turning  to  her  with  a  sweet,  reverential  grav- 
ity, "if  I  dare  to  speak  to  you  with  that  candor  which 
society  condemns  and  avoids,  will  you  forgive  me?" 

Stella  turned  pale  and  dropped  her  eyes. 

"I — it  is  a  strange  question,"  she  faltered,  "but  I  will 
answer  yes." 

"I  thank  you,"  he  said,  in  the  same  soft,  grave  tone. 
"Then  I  may  say  that  I  know  my  presence  will  not  be 
welcome  any  longer  at  the  Vale." 

Stella  started  and  turned  with  a  flush. 

"By  what  course  of  reasoning  have  you  deduced  that 
result?"  she  said. 

"Do  not  be  angry  with  me,"  he  pleaded,  "but  remember 
that  eyes  speak  more  freely  and  plainly  than  lips.  Your 
mother's  eyes  told  me  last  night  that  my  welcome  had 
expired." 

"Since  when?"  asked  Stella. 

He  hesitated  a  m^wient,  then  answered,  in  a  low  voice : 


Stella's  Fortune.  79 

"Since  Sir  Richard  Wildfang  ventured  to  remind  her 
that  I  was  poor  and  perhaps  an  adventurer." 

Stella  turned  to  him,  proud  and  wounded. 

"You — you  did  not  hear  him  say  that?  He  could  not 
be  so  base?" 

"I  did  not  hear  him)  say  it  in  so  many  words,  but  I 
heard  enough  of  the  broken  sentence  to  be  able  to  supply 
the  wanting  part.  No,  Miss  Newton,  the  last  few  hours 
have  been  short  and  happy  ones,  but  I  dare  not  prolong 
them.  My  own  honor  would  not  allow  me  to  remain 
beneath  the  roof  of  one  who  eyes  me  with  suspicion." 

Stella's  eye  filled  with  tears  and  she  turned  her  face 
from  him. 

Oh,  how  bitter  in  her  eyes  was  the  worldlmess  which 
even  a  stranger  could  detect  and  resent. 

Louis  Felton  glanced  at  her  with  a  look  of  ineffable 
tenderness  and  devotion,  which  changed  to  one  of  simple 
respect  as  he  said: 

"I  had  intended  writing  a  short  note  to  say  that  busi- 
ness had  called  me  away  at  a  moment's  notice,  but  I  am 
glad  of  an  opportunity  to  avoid  falsehood.  Dare  I  ask 
you  to  plead  my  excuse  ?" 

Stella  inclined  her  head. 

"Is  this  your  only  reason  for  leaving  us  so  suddenly  ?" 
she  asked,  in  a  low  voice,  her  eyes  still  seeking  the 
ground. 

"Not  the  only  one,"  be  said.    "There  is  one  other." 

"And  what  is  that?"  she  asked. 

"A  cunning  one,"  he  replied,  with  a  sad,  tender  smiic. 
"I  am  afraid  that  if  I  remain  I  may  lose  you  forever.  I 
mean,"  he  added,  as  she  crimsoned  and  stared  with  sur* 
prise,  '''that  commands  may  be  laid  upon  you  to  hold  no 
converse  with  the  adventurer  of  the  Hut.  For,  under- 
stand, Miss  Newton,  we  may  meet — dare  I  hope  so? — <• 
and  may  be  friends.  May  I  take  that  hope  with  me? 
You  would  not  rob  me  of  it  ?" 

"No,"  said  Stella,  turning  to  him  with  a  smile.  "It  is 
too  poor  a  thing  to  rob  you  of.  We  will  be  friends,  let 
worldly  wisdom  say  what  it  will." 

She  held  out  her  hand  as  she  spoke,  and,  uncovering 
his  head,  he  bent  over  it  so  low  that  she  fancied  she  felt 
the  silken  mustache  brush  it 


8o  Stella's  Fortune. 

"Good-by,"  he  said,  looking-  up  at  her. 

"Good-by,"  she  returned,  "if  you  will  go.** 

"Nay,  I  must.    Necessity  knows  no  law." 

He  bowed  as  he  spoke  with  a  heightened  color  and  a 
slow  shake  of  the  head,  and  Stella  was  left  alone  to  pon- 
der over  and  wonder  at  the  strange  words  and  ways  of 
this  handsome  stranger,  whom  she  seemed  to  have  known 
for  years  instead  of  hours. 

Then  she  re-entered  the  breakfast-room,  where  the 
cousins,  Mrs.  Newton  and  Sir  Richard  were  awaiting  her. 

"My  dear,  where  have  you  been?  Really,  you  carry 
your  love  for  exercise  and  fresh  air  to  too  great  an  ex- 
treme. Don't  you  think  so,  Sir  Richard?" 

Sir  Richard  smiled  as  he  shook  hands  and  mur- 
mured that  youth  is  reckless  and  fearless. 

The  cousins  then  crowded  around  and  dragged  her 
to  the  fire,  and  the  message  she  had  been  commis- 
sioned to  bear  was  put  off. 

But  only  for  a  few  minutes. 

"Dear  me,"  said  Mrs.  Newton,  haughtily,  "I  am 
surprised  Mr.  Felton  does  not  come.  We  are  all  wait- 
ing." 

"Mr.  Felton  will  not  be  here,  mamma,"  said  Stella, 
looking  around.  "He  is  called  away  by  urgent  busi- 
ness." 

As  she  spoke  she  felt  that  Sir  Richard's  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  her,  and  she  grew  restless  under  their 
searching  gaze. 

"Extraordinary,"  said  Mrs.  Newton,  "and  pray  who 
told  you  that?" 

"He  himself.  I  met  him  in  the  garden,"  replied 
Stella. 

"Well,  J'm  sure,  he  might  have  said  good-by,  I 
think,"  pouted  the  schoolgirl.  "After  being  so  friend- 
ly last  night,  too." 

"I  think  he  might  have  had  the  politeness  to  wait 
and  see  me,"  said  Mrs.  Newton,  frigidly,  "at  least." 

Stella  made  no  further  explanation,  and  the  break- 
fast commenced. 

Sir  Richard  made  himself  perfectly  at  home,  retailed 
all  the  news  and  paid  great  attention  to  the  girls,  but 
somehow  he  was  not  popular,  and  directly  the  break- 


Stelltfs  Fortune.  Si 

fast  was  over  the  young  ones  scampered  away,  drag- 
ging Stella  with  them,  and  Sir  Richard  and  Mrs. 
Newton  were  left  alone. 

Then  the  wily  man  of  the  world  commenced  the 
game  which  he  felt  so  sure  of  winning. 

"Madam,"  he  said,  "my  note  and  my  appearance, 
which  followed  so  soon  afterward,  must  have  some- 
what surprised  you." 

"No — not  at  all,"  simpered  Mrs.  Newton;  "at  least 
we  were  delighted  to  see  you.  So  kind  to  make  such 
friends  of  us ;  and  I  am  so  glad  you  came.  It  would 
have  been  unbearably  miserable  in  the  shooting  box 
all  alone." 

Sir  Richard  bowed  gratefully. 

"It  would  indeed,"  he  said.  "You  will  be  surprised 
perhaps  then  to  hear  that  I  had  a  distinct  purpose  in 
attending  upon  you  last  night,"  he  continued,  in  his 
soft,  seductive  voice. 

Mrs.  Newton  smiled  as  amicably  as  she  could,  and 
looked  curious. 

"Indeed,  Sir  Richard?" 

"Yes,"  he  went  on,  "an  object  very  near  my  heart 
My  dear  Mrs.  Newton,  I  have  fallen  in  love  with  youi 
daughter." 

The  worldly  mother  started,  and  looked  embarrassed. 

It  was  a  great  honor  truly,  for  Sir  Richard  was  a 
baronet,  and  wealthy — oh,  no  one  knew  how  wealthy! 
But  then  there  was  Lord  Marmion ! 

Sir  Richard  smiled  inwardly.  He  knew  the  very 
thoughts  that  were  flitting  through  her  calculating 
brain,  and  he  was  quite  prepared  for  them. 

"I  loved  her  from  the  first  moment  I  saw  her,"  he 
continued.  "And  who  could  help  doing  so?  She  is 
beautiful  and  amiable.  Ah,  madam,  I  am  no  boy  to 
whom  the  world  and  womankind  are  fairyland  of  im- 
possibilities! I  am  a  man  of  the  world,  and  I  have 
learned  by  experience  to  recognize  and  value  so  great 
a  treasure  as  your  daughter.  For  years  I  have  been 
seeking  for  the  woman  whom  I  could  with  confidence 
make  my  wife.  I  have  admired  many,  respected  a 
few,  but  I  never  met  the  one  I  could  love  and  respect 
At  the  same  time  until  I  saw  Miss  Newton.  Can  you 


8a  Stella's  Fortune. 

be  surprised,  madam,  that  I,  a  man  of  the  world, 
should  feel  doubtful  of  the  passion  with  which  she  in- 
spired me?  I  am  determined  to  test  it.  Hitherto,  I 
told  myself,  you  have  but  seen  her  at  her  best,  ajt  balls 
and  in  public;  go  unexpectedly  and  see  her  at  her 
home,  in  the  position  which  you  \vould  have  her  fill  for 
you.  I  came  down  unexpectedly,  and  I  find  her  good, 
true,  happy  as  a  child  in  the  midst  of  a  happy  circle  of 
children,  and,  need  I  say,  madam,  that  I  love  her  more 
passionately  than  ever? 

"Now,"  he  continued,  "a  rash  boy  would  let  his  pas- 
sion run  away  with  him,  and  disregarding  the  respect 
due  to  you,  my  dear  Mrs.  Newton,  would  present  him- 
self to  Miss  Newton  and  declare  his  love.  I  come  to 
you  before  I  take  that  step,  for  two  reasons:  first,  be- 
cause 1  think  it  is  your  due ;  secondly,  because,  though 
I  would  at  once  without  loss  of  time  place  you  in  pos- 
session of  my  intention  and  hope,  I  am  disinclined  to 
declare  myself  to  Miss  Newton.  You  will  see  my  rea- 
sons at  a  glance.  You  will  see  why  I  am  unwilling 
to  risk  my  all  at  so  short  an  acquaintance;  we  have 
known  each  other  so  little;  I  have  scarcely  had  time 
to  convince  her  of  my  devotion.  I  come  to  you,  my 
dear  madam,  to  ask  you  for  your  daughter's  hand  at 
once,  and" — here  he  spoke  more  slowly  and  eyed  the 
worldly  face  with  keen  attention — "I  should  have  done 
so  before,  but  I  thought,  I  feared,  that  another  had  a 
prior  claim  to  your  consideration." 

Mrs.  Newton  started  and  turned  to  him  with  a 
wily  look. 

"I  mean  Lord  Marmion,"  continued  Sir  Richard. 
"On  Christmas  Eve  only  I  learned  that  I  had  erred 
Lord  Marmion  is  engaged  to  marry  his  cousin,  the 
Lady  Pauline;  an  engagement  which  has  existed  in 
form  for  years.  Directly  I  knew  that  I  determined 
to  lay  my  cause  before  you,  and — here  I  do  so,  wait- 
ing most  anxiously  for  your  answer." 

Mrs.  Newton's  face  was  a  study.  Disappointment, 
chagrin  and  a  gleam  of  consolation  struggled  for  the 
predominance. 

At  last  she  thought  that  half  a  loaf  was  better  than 
none;  better  a  baronet  than  no  title  at  all,  and,  with 


Steiltfs  Fortune.  83 

a  very  good  counterfeit  of  maternal  emotion,  she  said, 
holding  oui  her  hand: 

"My  dear  Sir  Richard,  you  have  my  very  best  wishes 
for  your  success.  My  dear  girl  is  all  the  world  to  me, 
and  I  am  naturally  anxious  about  her  future,  but  if  it 
lies  in  your  hands  I  can  feel  quite  secure." 

Sir  Richard  took  the  thin  hand  and  raised  it  to  his 
lips  with  a  reverential  respect,  which  belied  the  sar- 
donic grin  glittering  in  his  eyes. 

And  so  Stella  was  promised,  and  Sir  Richard, 
perfect  confidence,  only  bided  his  time. 


CHAPTER  XII. 
A  SERVANT'S  IMPUDENCE. 

Methinka  there's  too  much  seeming 
la  the  play.    Behind  the  mask 
There  yawns  a  greedy  face. 

Christmas  is  past,  but  Christmas  weather  still  re* 
mains;  the  woods  of  Heavithorne  are  still  hard  and 
crisp,  the  ponds  covered  with  their  silvery  mantle,  and 
the  whole  of  nature  under  the  rule  and  sovereignty 
of  King  Frost. 

AH  the  visitors  have  left  the  Vale,  the  schoolgirl  has 
returned  to  her  Markham's  England  and  Bonnechose's 
France,  the  old  cousin  has  quietly  gone  back  to  his  domi- 
cile in  town,  little  Tottie  has  returned  nolens  volens,  to 
the  nursery,  and  Mrs.  Newton  and  Stella  are  alone. 

Of  the  two  other  guests  not  yet  disposed  of,  Sir  Rich- 
ard they  see  frequently,  for  he  is  still  staying  at  the  Box, 
and  often  drives  or  rides  over,  sometimes  to  dinner,  some- 
times for  a  morning  call  only. 

Mrs.  Newton  always  welcomes  him  with  effusion,  and 
never  fails  to  dilate  for  an  hour  after  his  departure  on  his 
good  qualities  and  immense  wealth  to  her  daughter. 

Stella  listens  as  indifferently  as  if  her  mother  were 
praising  the  virtues  of  the  goddess  Vishnu;  sometimes 
makes  no  remark,  and  oftentimes  rises  and  leaves  the 
room  to  be  rid  of  the  subject,  which  to  her  is  most  un- 
pleasant 

When  Sir  Richard  comes  he  is  always  the  same,  cool 
and  bland,  self-composed  and  self-assured,  like  a  man 
who  knows  that  he  has  but  to  play  a  waiting  game  to 
win,  and  has  therefore  made  up  his  mind  to  wait. 

When  he  speaks  to  Stella  it  is  always  in  the  low,  defer- 
ential tone  and  with  the  soft  smile  of  a  polished  man  of 
the  world.  Yet  he  hovers  about  her,  appearing  at  her 
elbow  when  least  expected,  and  suggests  remarks  and 
comments  so  opportunely  and  persistently  that  Stella 

M 


Stellas  Fortune.  85 

— beautiful  Stella,  whom  a  certain  artist  thought  lovely 
enough  to  be  reproduced  in  marble — feels  that  she  hates 
him  more  and  more  each  day,  and  that  as  her  hate  grows 
so  does  his  power. 

She  feels  that  she  is  within  the  circle  of  a  net  which  is. 
gradually  being  tightened  around  her. 

As  for  Louis  Felton,  she  has  seen  very  little  of  him. 

Sometimes  she  has  seen  the  smoke  of  the  Hut  rising 
above  the  trees,  and  has  taken  it  as  a  signal  of  his  pres- 
ence ;  at  others  the  blue,  thin,  vapory  cloud  has  not  hoisted 
its  beacon,  and  she  has  known  that  he  was  in  town  or 
elsewhere. 

The  villagers — her  pensioners — can  tell  her  nothing 
about  him,  for  he  has  brought  a  manservant — a  favorite 
model  so  they  say — to  serve  as  henchman,  and  has  re- 
quested no  other  assistance. 

A  cartload  of  luggage  of  some  description  has  arrived, 
and  there  are  curtains  up  at  the  windows  through  which 
a  ruby  stain  is  thrown  at  night  time  upon  the  snowy 
lawn. 

At  all  events,  if  the  master  of  the  Hut  is  mysterious, 
the  Hut  itself  looks  cheerful  enough. 

Once  Stella,  when  passing  on  her  trusty  little  cob,  fan- 
cied that  she  heard  his  cheerful  voice  singing  in  an  upper 
room,  but  it  might  have  been  the  model's — voices  are  de- 
ceptive. 

One  day  Mrs.  Newton,  knowing  nothing  of  her  daugh- 
ter's feelings  toward  either  gentleman,  said: 

"Stella,  my  dear,  have  you  heard  what  became  of  that 
peculiar  creature  who  came  here  on  Christmas  night?'* 

"Sir  Richard,  do  you  mean?"  asked  Stella,  with  the 
most  demure  face. 

"Sir  Richard!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Newton,  with  angry 
surprise.  "Do  you  think  I  should  call  Sir  Richard  a  pe- 
culiar creature?  My  dear  Stella,  what  can  you  be  think- 
ing about?" 

"Whom  do  you  mean,  then,  mamma?" 

"Why,  that  strange  man,  Mr.  Felton,  of  the  Hut.** 

"I  have  heard  nothing  of  him,"  replied  Stella. 

"Nor  I,"  continued  Mrs.  Newton,  querulously,  "and 
I've  asked  every  one,  too.  A  most  strange  young  man; 


86  Stella's  Fortune. 

flighty  and  unreliable,  too ;  and  I  should  think  very  poor 
— miserably  poor.  Sir  Richard  said  something-  about  his 
being  an  artist  of  some  kind — a  sculptor,  I  think.  Very 
strange,  I'm  sure.  I  wonder  at  his  staying  on  Christmas 
night  as  he  did." 

"So  do  I ;  so  did  he  the  next  morning  evidently,  for  he 
went,  you  see,  mamma,  very  rapidly." 

"And  shows  his  good  sense,"  said  the  widow,  tossing 
his  head.  "But,  Stella,  now  I  think  of  it,  just  remind  me 
that  I  promised  to  go  over  and  see  Sir  Richard  at  the 
Box,  which  he  tells  me  he  has  so  altered  that  it  is  quite 
a  charming  place.  I  think — mind,  I  am  not  sure — but  I 
think  he  intends  buying  it." 

"Indeed,"  said  Stella,  indifferently,  "and  when  do  you 
wish  me  to  remind  you  of  your  promise,  mamma?" 

"To-morrow.    We  will  go  to-morrow." 

Stella  looked  up  with  a  pretty  little  frown. 

"So  soon?"  she  said,  quietly. 

"Yes;  and  why  not?"  said  Mrs.  Newton.  "The 
weather  is  beautiful,  I'm  sure ;  you  can't  have  any  objec- 
tion to  calling  on  Sir  Richard." 

"I  have  no  particular  wish  either  way,"  said  Stella, 
quietly ;  "we  will  go  to-morrow  if  you  wish  it." 

Just  then  a  footman  knocked. 

"Come  in,"  said  Mrs.  Newton. 

"A  man  wishes  to  see  you  madam ;  I  have  told  him  that 
he  must  send  in  his  message,  but  he  will  not  do  so." 

"Dear  me !  Indeed !"  said  Mrs.  Newton.  "Then  send 
him  away  immediately." 

"But  he  won't  go,"  said  the  footman. 

"How  annoying  and  stupid  you  are.  Send  him  in  here 
then  and  I  will  soon  send  him  about  his  business." 

And  she  drew  herself  up  into  her  most  disagreeable  at- 
titude. 

The  footman  retreated,  and  presently  ushered  in  the 
grim  fellow  Stephen  Hargrave,  Sir  Richard  Wildfang's 
servant. 

"Dear  me,"  said  Mrs.  Newton,  "is  it  you,  my  good 
man?  Why  didn't  you  say  it  was  Sir  Richard's  servant?" 

"Because  I'm  not  Sir  Richard's  servant,"  replied  the 
man,  in  his  usual  gruff  and  sullen  fashion. 


SleUcts  Fortune.  99 

*Not — then  you  have  left  his  service,  been  misbehaving 
yourself,  I  suppose." 

"No,  I  haven't ;  I  haven't  misconducted  myself,  and  he 
can't  say  I  have." 

Mrs.  Newton  gave  a  little  sniff  of  misbelief. 

"I'm  sure  Sir  Richard  is  too  kind-hearted  a  master  to 
discharge  one  of  his  men  for  anything  short  of  mis- 
conduct." 

"Well,  he's  discharged  me,"  said  the  man,  "and  for 
nothing  as  I  know  of ;  he's  tired  of  me  most  likely ;  per- 
haps I'm  not  civil  enough." 

"Well,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Newton,  "what  do  you  want 
with  me?" 

"I  come,  mum,  to  ask  if  you'd  take  me  in,  seeing  as 
Sir  Richard  hasn't  anything  against  me " 

Mrs.  Newton  rose  with  virtuous  indignation. 

"You  bad  man,  I  am  astonished.  Leave  the  room  and 
the  house  immediately.  To  suppose  that  I  would  take  for 
a.  servant  a  man  whom  Sir  Richard  has  discharged !  He 
must  have  some  good  reason  for  it,  I  am  sure,  and  I 
shall  hear  the  truth  from  him.  But  leave  the  room,  sir; 
I  am  surprised  at  your  impertinence !" 

The  man  turned  slowly  and  looked  back  at  the  mother 
and  daughter. 

Stella,  keener  of  eye  than  her  mother,  perceived  that 
there  was  a  look  of  suppressed  amusement  in  the  man's 
face  and  was  puzzled  by  it.  His  manner,  too,  set  her 
thinking ;  it  seemed  so  cool  and  self-possessed  and  so  me- 
chanical that  he  seemed  like  one  repeating  a  lesson  and 
going  through  an  excellent  piece  of  make-believe. 

She  said  nothing,  however,  and  Mrs.  Newton,  after 
dilating  upon  the  impudence  of  the  creature,  dropped  the 
subject. 

The  morrow  was  as  beautiful  as  a  January  morning 
could  be,  as,  completely  enveloped  in  furs,  Mrs.  Newton 
and  Stella  started  for  the  Box. 

When  they  arrived  Sir  Richard  was  standing  at  the 
door  ready  to  assist  them  in  alighting. 

"I  am  overwhelmed  by  the  honor,"  he  murmured. 
"Never  were  a  bachelor's  quarters  so  graced,"  and,  with 


88  Stelltfs  Fortune. 

sundry  other  compliments,  he  led  them  into  the  drawing- 
room. 

"How  beautiful,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Newton,  looking 
around  upon  the  blue  satin  hangings  and  Louis  Quatorze 
furniture.  "I  had  no  idea  you  could  make  so  splendid 
a  little  palace  of  such  an  old-fashioned  little  place." 

"Oh,  a  mere  nothing,"  said  Sir  Richard,  carelessly. 

"A  mere  nothing?  What  must  your  mansion  in  War- 
wickshire be  like  then?"  exclaimed  the  wily  widow, 
glancing  at  Stella. 

"Oh,  that  is  properly  furnished,  my  dear  madam,"  said 
Sir  Richard.  "But  let  us  to  luncheon.  I  am  sure  you 
must  be  cold  and  hungry.  Allow  me,  my  dear  Mrs.  New- 
ton!" and,  with  polished  gallantry,  he  escorted  them  to 
the  miniature  little  dining-room,  which  in  elegance  and 
taste  quite  matched  the  apartment  Mrs.  Newton  had  so 
much  admired. 

A  superb  little  luncheon  was  laid,  and  Mrs.  Newton  en- 
joyed it  immensely. 

Stella  ate  but  little  and  talked  less,  for  Sir  Richard 
devoted  himself  entirely  to  the  mother,  and  only  occa- 
sionally addressed  himself  to  the  daughter,  but  on  these 
few  occasions  his  manner  was  delicat«ly  deferential  and 
winning,  and  Stella,  much  as  she  disliked  him,  could  not 
but  admit  that  Sir  Richard  Wildfang  was  the  pink  of 
courtesy. 

When  the  carriage  came  around  and  the  ladies  arose 
to  go,  Mrs.  Newton  said: 

"By  the  way,  Sir  Richard,  that  strange,  odd-looking1 
manservant  of  yours  came  to  me  yesterday  and  \vanted 
me  to  engage  him.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  imper- 
tinence, after  you  had  discharged  him?  So  absurd  to 
come  to  me  of  all  persons  in  the  world." 

Sir  Richard  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  smiled. 

"An  impudent  rogue  and  an  ungrateful  fellow,  my 
dear  madam.  I  packed  him  off  at  a  minute's  notice  for 
an  act  of  disobedience.  There  was  no  doing  anything 
with  the  rascal.  His  heart  was  like  stone,  and  kindness 
only  hardened  it." 

"Dear  me,  it's  shocking!  And  you  were  so  good  to 
him — rescued  him  from  the  street!" 


Stelltfs  Fortune.  89 

"Something  like  it,  madam.  Saved  him  from  prison, 
I  may  say.  But  I  am  afraid  it  was  a  foolish  charity,  for 
if  I  am  not  mistaken  the  fellow  is  bound  for  that  goal 
sooner  or  later.  He  has  a  disposition  toward  violence, 
and  only  keeps  his  ferocity  under  by  a  strong  effort,  I  feel 
assured." 

Mrs  Newton  quite  shuddered. 

"What  a  dreadful  ruffian !  I  am  so  glad,  Sir  Richard, 
that  you  got  rid  of  him." 

Sir  Richard  smiled  again,  and  followed  them,  bare- 
headed, into  the  cold  air,  in  which  he  insisted  upon  re- 
maining until  the  carriage  had  started. 

Then,  when  his  guests'  backs  had  fairly  turned  upon 
him,  Sir  Richard  allowed  his  face  to  relax  into  something 
approaching  an  actual  grin. 

"If  it  were  not  for  the  girl's  beauty  and  her  money  one 
could  not  endure  the  thought  of  such  a  mother-in-law. 
Cunning  as  a  crab  and  vain  as  a  peacock.  No  matter,  so 
that  her  cunning  and  her  vanity  serve  my  purpose !" 

All  the  way  home  Mrs.  Newton  was  loud  in  Sir  Rich- 
ard's praise.  He  was  so  courteous,  so  polished,  so  deli- 
cately kind,  and,  ah !  so  wealthy.  What  a  happy  woman 
Sir  Richard's  wife  would  be! 

To  all  this  Stella  said  nothing,  but  smiled  wearily  and 
sadly,  and  when  they  arrived  home  she  retreated  to  her 
room,  and  was  seen  no  more  that  day. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE   MYSTERY   OF  LOVE. 

But  taketh  time  and  pains  to  learn.     Love  comes 
With  neither.  — SHERIDAN  KNOWLBS. 

The  follow.  Vig  morning-  Stella  came  down  looking  little 
the  worse  foi  the  headache  which  had  been  the  alleged 
cause  of  her  retirement  of  yesterday. 

Indeed,  she  looked  as  bright  and  fresh  as  the  robins 
which  came  to  peck  up  the  crumbs  which,  according  to 
her  daily  custom,  she  threw  them  from  the  window. 

"Mamma,'r  she  said,  after  the  breakfast,  which  was 
usually  rather  a  harassing  meal,  in  consequence  of  Mrs. 
Newton  fixing  upon  it  as  a  good  opportunity  to  grumble 
at  the  servants,  or  anything  else  that  came  uppermost. 
"Mamma,  I  shall  go  for  a  ride  this  morning " 

"Nonsense!"  interrupted  Mrs.  Newton.  "It  is  too 
cold;  you  will  be  frozen!" 

"Indeed  I  shall  not,"  urged  Stella,  in  that  tone  which 
her  mother  knew  meant  no  surrender.  "It  will  be  the 
best  exercise  for  this  weather,  and  Bessie  wants  a  gallop 
as  badly  as  I  do.  Let  me  go,  mamma?" 

"Well,  if  you've  made  up  your  mind  to  go,  I  think  you 
might  spare  me  the  pain  of  asking  my  permission,"  said 
Mrs.  Newton,  ungraciously,  and  Stella  ran  up  to  don  her 
habit. 

Bessie,  the  mare,  had  certainly  been  in  the  stable  for 
some  days,  and  was  as  certainly  a  little  fresh,  as  Stella 
found  when  the  powerful  little  animal  bounded  off  the 
lawn  like  a  kitten,  nearly  unseating  her  mistress. 

"We'll  try  the  park, 'shall  we,  Bessie?"  said  Stella, 
caressing  the  animal's  velvet-tipped  ear  with  her  thickly 
gloved  hands.  "We'll  have  a  scamper  under  the  trees, 
and  a  leap  across  the  brook,  shall  we?  Away  with  you, 
then !" 

And  the  spirited  little  animal,  needing  no  further 
,  galloped  off  in  the  best  of  spirits. 

90 


Stella's  Fortune.  91 

Then  they  came  to  the  brook. 

Stella  pulled  up  for  a  moment  to  decide  which  way  to 
take,  but  Bessie  saved  her  the  trouble  by  striking  off  in 
the  direction  of  the  right,  and  Stella,  laughing  at  the  ani- 
mal's impatience,  let  her  go. 

Presently  they  came  near  the  outer  fence  of  the  Hut 
grounds,  and  as  Miss  Bessie  had  been  in  the  habit  of  leap- 
ing it  for  some  years  past,  she  naturally  imagined  that  cus- 
tom was  to  be  maintained,  and  rising  at  the  fence  leaped 
over  as  cleverly  as  a  bird,  but  alighted  with  something 
more  than  a  bird's  weight  on  something  that  cracked  and 
smashed  with  a  terrific  noise. 

"Oh,  dear !"  exclaimed  Stella,  in  alarm.  "What  have 
you  done?" 

''Broken  my  miniature  greenhouse,"  said  a  cheerful 
and  amused  voice  beside  her,  and  Stella,  looking  around, 
saw  the  graceful  form  of  Louis  Felton  standing  beside 
the  wreck  of  a  fern  case  and  looking  up  at  her  with  a 
mischievous  smile. 

"Good-morning,"  said  Stella,  blushing  beautifully  but 
looking  fearfully  embarrassed.  "I  am  so  sorry!  It  was 
all  my  horse's  fault,  though;  indeed  it  was.  She  is  used 
to  clearing  this  piece  of  fencing  and  making  a  short  cut, 
and  she  did  it  this  morning  as  a  matter  of  course.  In- 
deed, I  am  sorry.  What  have  I  done?" 

And  she  looked  down  regretfully  at  the  broken  glass 
and  shattered  framework. 

"In  the  first  place,  committed  violent  trespass,  done 
damage  to  an  excellent  fern  case  which  has  taken  me  four 
hours  to  furbish  up,  and  lastly  broken  your  bridle.  See?" 

And  he  had  his  hand  upon  the  broken  leather  and  held 
it  up. 

"Never  was  so  much  mischief  done  in  so  short  a  time,'* 
lamented  Stella.  "Pray,  Mr.  Felton,  will  you  prosecute 
me?v 

"Most  decidedly,"  he  retorted,  smiling,  "and  have  yoa 
cast  in  heavy  damages.  But  seriously,  I  am  afraid  for 
your  own  sake,  Miss  Newton,  that  you  must  dismount, 
and  I  am  glad  for  mine  that  a  snowstorm  is  approaching, 
which  will  give  me  an  opportunity  to  display  my  hos- 
pitality and  compel  you  to  accept  it" 


92  Stella's  Fortune. 

Stella  looked  up  at  the  sky  as  he  spoke,  and  flushed 
again. 

A  snowstorm  was  evidently  threatening. 

"Will  there  not  be  time  for  me  to  reach  home?"  she 
asked. 

"Yes,  and  get  wet  through  into  the  bargain,"  he  re- 
plied, readily.  "Come,  Miss  Newton,  necessity  knows  no 
laws." 

She  dropped  the  bridle  reluctantly,  and  taking  his  hand 
dismounted. 

Then  he  led  the  horse  around  the  drive  with  Stella 
walking  beside. 

"What  an  alteration  you  have  made,"  she  said,  looking 
around.  "And  yet  it  looks  quite  as  romantic  as  ever. 
This  shrubbery  is  surely  the  prettiest  in  England." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  he  said,  with  a  gratified  smile  upon 
his  face,  which  was  handsome  in  its  classical  regularity 
and  spirited  in  its  expression  of  genius  and  culture. 
"Then  I  may  hope  you  will  approve  of  my  reverence, 
which  has  not  dared  to  destroy  the  antique  air  of  the  in- 
terior. Will  you  honor  me  by  an  inspection  of  my  studio  ?" 

And  as  he  stood  upon  the  first  of  the  flight  of  broad 
stone  steps  he  held  out  his  hand. 

Stella  hesitated. 

What  would  Mrs.  Newton  say? — What  Sir  Richard? 
— what  all  the  proprieties  put  together? 

"My — my  horse,"  she  said.    "I  cannot  leave  her." 

"No,"  he  said.  "I  will  have  her  taken  care  of  and  the 
bridle  mended.  Stephen!  Stephen!''  he  called. 

Stella  started  and  turned  around  and  saw  the  man 
Stephen  Hargrave  approach  and  take  the  horse,  touching 
his  hat  to  Stella  as  he  did  so  with  a  keen,  watchful 
expression  on  his  set  face. 

Stella  waited  until  he  had  led  the  horse  away,  then  she 
said: 

"Do  you  know  that  that  man  was  a  discharged  servant 
of  Sir  Richard  Wildfang,  Mr.  Felton  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  with  a  quiet,  musical  laugh.  "I 
know  it ;  if  you  remember,  the  poor  fellow  came  to  grief 
on  Christmas  night  at  this  door." 


Stella's  Fortune.  Q3 

"I  do  remember,"  said  Stella,  and  then  added,  mentally : 
"I  shall  never  forget  that  Christmas  night." 

"Well,  rough  and  surly  as  he  is,  I  took  a  fancy  to  him 
then,  and  was  quite  sorry  to  hear  that  he  was  Sir  Rich- 
ard's permanent  servant.  The  other  night  he  came  here, 
and,  vowing  that  he  was  starving,  asked  me  to  engage 
him.  Of  course,  he  told  me  that  he  had  been  discharged 
for  no  fault ;  they  never  are ;  and  equally,  of  course,  I  did 
not  engage  him  until  I  had  written  Sir  Richard." 

Stella  looked  surprised. 

"You  wrote  to  him?  He  said  nothing  of  it,  and  we 
lunched  with  him  yesterday." 

Louis  Felton  smiled  significantly. 

"Sir  Richard  is  a  man  of  business  and  the  world,"  he 
said,  concisely.  "But  see,  there  is  the  first  flake  of 
my  prophesied  shower.  Will  you  enter?" 

He  held  her  hand  to  assist  her  up  the  steps,  and, 
with  the  air  of  a  Knight  Templar,  ushered  her  into 
the  hall. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "please  go  on;  I  am  curious  to 
know  how  you  came  to  engage  him  after  all." 

"Sir  Richard  courteously  and  speedily  replied  to  my 
note  by  sending  per  special  messenger  an  answer  to 
the  effect  that  the  man,  Stephen  Hargrave,  had  left 
his  service  for  no  particular  fault;  that  he  had  been 
disobedient  and  was  too  unpolished  for  a  gentleman's 
servant,  so  as  I  thought  his  roughness  would  not  offend 
my  unrefined  ears  and  sensibilities,  and,  as  I  did  not 
dread  disobedience  so  much  as  Sir  Richard  evidently 
does,  I  engaged  him." 

"And  he  has  behaved "  asked  Stella. 

"Admirably,"  replied  Louis  Felton.  "He  is  not  a 
count  in  disguise,  but  he  is  civil  and  obeys  like  a 
Newfoundland  dog.  In  fact,  I  congratulate  myself 
upon  having  that  rare  acquisition,  a  good  and  faithful 
servant." 

"You  don't  think,"  hesitated  Stella,  "that  he  has  a 
bad  face?" 

"No,"  he  replied.  "I  think  he  has  seen  some  trou- 
ble or  horror  which  he  cannot  rid  himself  of,  and  I 
think  he  fancies  himself  under  some  strain  or  mental 
slavery,  to  whom  I  know  not.  But  let  us  leave  Mr. 


94  Stettes  Fortune. 

Hargrave  to  time  and  circumstances.  Will  you  not 
come  to  the  fire?  Fuel  is  not  so  scarce  an  article  as 
it  was  on  Christmas  Day." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Stella,  gazing  around  the  little 
hall  with  unfeigned  interest.  "But  may  I  look  a  lit- 
tle longer?  This  might  be  the  hall  of  one  of  King 
Arthur's  Knights  of  the  Round  Table.  It  is  beautiful. 
Why,  there  is  not  a  piece  of  oak  furniture  or  armor  in 
it  younger  than  three  hundred  years." 

"No,"  said  Louis  Felton.  "I  do  not  suppose  there 
is." 

Then  he  drew  aside  a  curtain  which  had  hidden  a 
small  oriel  window,  and  Stella  uttered  an  exclama- 
tion of  admiration. 

"How  beautiful!  And  did  you  restore  that  stained 
window  with  your  own  hands?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "and  not  so  difficult  an  undertaking 
as  it  may  seem.  But  will  you  walk  into  my  studio?" 
he  said,  opening  a  door  leading  from  the  hall. 

Stella,  as  curious  as  Bluebeard's  wife,  entered  a 
large,  lofty  room,  which  was  hung  with  black  velvet 
and  faded  tapestry  and  through  which  a  stream  of  rose- 
colored  light,  pouring  from  a  stained  window,  fell 
upon  a  multitude  of  marble  figures  and  statuary  which 
were  arranged  around  the  room. 

A  block  of  marble  stood  in  the  corner,  and  hi  the 
center  of  the  room  was  a  slab  upon  which  a  group  of 
figures  was  dimly  discernible. 

"How  beautiful!"  said  Stella,  under  her  breath. 
"And  did  you  carve  all  these?" 

"All  of  them,"  he  replied.  "There  are  not  many, 
and  they  are  all  very  poor,  or  be  assured  they  would 
not  be  here." 

"Why  not?"  she  said.    "Where  would  they  be?" 

"Sold  with  the  rest,"  he  replied,  laughing. 

"I  must  go  around  and  look  at  them,"  said  Stella. 
"What's  that?" 

"Adriadne,"  he  replied,  and  he  went  around  with 
her,  listening  with  delight  he  did  not  care  to  conceal 
to  her  softly  expressed  admiration  and  wonder. 

"And  that  you  are  doing  now?"  she  said,  looking 
toward  the  slab  on  the  raised  dais. 


Stella's  Fortune.  gg 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "But  I  am  at  a  standstill  for  one 
figure.  I  want  to  perform  an  impossibility  and  cut 
a  true  portrait  without  a  model." 

"Cannot  you  get  one?"  said  Stella. 

"Not  this  one,"  he  replied,  looking  down  at  her 
intetested  face  with  a  strange,  wistful  smile. 

"And  is  it  impossible  to  convey  a  good  portrait  to 
marble  without  a  model?"  she  asked. 

"Nearly.  Not  always  though,"  he  added,  very 
quietly.  "I  accomplished  it  once." 

"You  did?"  she  said.  "Is  the  statue  here?"  and  she 
looked  around  eagerly. 

"No,"  he  said.  "I'sold  it.  It  was  the  best  I  had 
done." 

"What  a  pity  to  sell  it!"  she  said.  "Why  did  you 
do  so?" 

"I  sold  it  for  two  reasons.  I  wanted  money,  and  I 
could  not  work  while  it  was  in  the  room.  Have  you 
never  heard  of  the  diamond  cutters  in  Amsterdam, 
Miss  Newton?  Sometimes  a  man  will  get  enamored 
of  a  stone  if  it  be  fine  and  pure,  and  the  overseer  has 
to  take  it  from  him  and  set  him  to  work  on  smaller 
and  less  fascinating  gems.  It  was  so  with  me.  While 
the  statue  remained  in  the  shadow  I  could  not  tear 
myself  from  it,  but,  like  Pygmalion,  spent  all  my  days 
in  vain  longing  that  the  cold  marble  might  become 
endued  with  life  and  return  me  love  for  love." 

His  voice  had  grown  dangerously  soft  and  thrilling", 
and  Stella,  looking  up  at  him,  flushed  beneath  the 
wistful  tenderness  of  his  gaze. 

"To — to  whom  did  you  sell  it?"  she  asked. 

"To  Lord  Marmion,"  he  answered. 

Stella  started,  turned  pale,  and  bent  her  eyes  to  the 
ground. 

He  saw  her  embarrassment. 

"You  know  him  ?"  he  asked,  with  some  surprise  and 
a  slightly  heightened  color. 

"Yes,"  she  replied. 

"And  you  have  seen  my  statue?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered  again,  more  faintly. 

"Then  the  secret  is  out,"  he  said,  with  a  hurried, 


96  Stellcts  Fortiwe. 

tremulous  music  in  his  voice.    "Miss  Newton — Stella! 
can  you  forgive  me  ?" 

"I — do  not  ask  me,  please!"  she  returned,  growing 
crimson  and  pale  by  turns.  "I — I  cannot  say.  I  do 
not  know.  Let  us  talk  of  something  else.  May  I  look 
at  that  slab?"  and  with  a  nervous  haste  she  turned 
her  face  from  him  and  approached  the  dais. 

He  followed  her,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her  face,  his 
lips  slightly  apart,  and  his  whole  attitude  expressive 
of  devotion. 

Stella  bent  forward  and  looked  at  the  unfinished 
marble. 

"You  see  what  it  is,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "It 
is  a  group — a  family  group  of  happy  girls  and  an  old 
man.  They  are  gathered  around  a  Christmas  fire 
listening  to  a  Christmas  story  which  is.  being  told  by 
the  best  and  most  beautiful  of  them  all.  She  is  not 
cut  out  yet — there  on  that  plain  spot  she  is  to  stand 
— and  when  she  is  there,  with  her  beautiful  face  and 
loving  smile  resting  like  sunlight  upon  the  faces  of  the 
rest,  the  group  will  be  finished." 

Stella  turned  her  face  to  him  for  a  moment,  with  a 
strong  effort  at  calm  indifference,  but  the  effort  broke 
down  and  her  eyes  sought  the  ground. 

"Do  you  know  the  originals  of  the  group?  Do  you 
recognize  them  and  the  missing  face  and  figure?  How 
shall  I  insert  that?  Look  in  the  mirror  yonder  and 
cease  to  wonder  that  I  hesitate  and  feel  my  skill  pow- 
erless and  my  chisel  profane  when  it  appoaches  the 
portraiture  of  such  beauty.  Miss  Newton,  do  not  be 
angered — nay,  rather  than  anger  you  should  feel  pity 
for  the  unfortunate  creature  who  loves  and  yet  cannot 
allow  himself  to  hope!" 

Stella  turned  toward  him  and  opened  her  lips.  She 
should  have  remained  motionless,  for  her  movement 
gave  him  courage. 

"Stella,"  he  breathed,  leaning  over  her  and  taking  her 
hand,  "would  you  tell  me  that  I  am  wrong  in  withholding 
the  last  atom  of  perfection  to  the  whole?  Would  you 
tell  me  that  to  your  loveliness  and  purity  you  add  a  tender 
heart  and  a  noble  courage?  Were  you  going  to  tell  me 
that  I,  the  poor  sculptor,  might  hope?  Oh!  if  you  were, 


Stella's  Fortune.  97 

'i  pray  you  to  speak  on  that  you  may  know  the  ineffable 
delight  of  making  one  heart  in  the  world  perfectly  happy. 
Stella,  you  do  not  speak;  you  do  not  bid  me  be  silent; 
you  let  me  say  I  love  you.  Oh !  my  darling,  my  goddess, 
crown  me  with  joy,  and  tell  me  that  I  not  only  love  but 
am  loved.'* 

Stella  stood  near  the  raised  dais,  Louis  Felton's  knee 
dropped  on  it,  and  he  drew  the  white,  warm  hand,  which 
he  still  held,  down  to  his  lips. 

Stella  tried  to  take  it  away, 

"Don't  take  it  away  from  me,  Stella,"  he  pleaded. 
"Let  it  remain;  let  it,  at  least,  whisper  to  me  that  you 
love  me  if  your  lips  will  not  say  so." 

Stella  hesitated  for  a  second,  and  let  it  remain. 

He  sprang  up  and  very  audaciously  caught  her  in  his 
arms. 

"My  own,  my  very,  only  beautifuJ  one'  MV  statue 
has  turned  to  life  and  love !" 

Stella's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"Stop,"  she  said,  dropping  her  head  on  to  his  breast 
and  looking  up  at  him  with  tearful  but  wondrously  loving 
eyes.  "I  am  not  your  own,  for  they  will  not  let  me  be! 
Do  you  know  the  story  I  was  telling  on  Christmas  night 
—that  blessed  Christmas  night  when  I  first  saw  you?" 

"No,"  he  murmured,  "you  saw  me  before  then,  and  1 
you." 

"Do  you  know,"  she  went  on,  "I  was  telling  them  of 
the  princess  who  was  not  allowed  to  wed  where  she  loved, 
and  I  thought — will  you  think  me  rude,  unwomanly  and 
forward  ? — that,  perchance,  I  might  be  that  princess,  and 
that  you — don't  stop  me,  I  must  say  it — that  you  would 
have  to  leave  me  forever." 

"Never,"  he  vowed,  drawing  her  to  him,  "Come  what 
will,  I  will  never  leave  you  unless  you  with  your  ov/n  lips 
should  bid  me.  Then " 

"Then — well?"  she  murmured. 

"Then  I  should  break  all  my  foolish  statues  and  go 
anywhere  out  of  your  reach  to  hide  the  heart  that  would 
be  as  shattered  as  my  poor  marbles !" 

"You  will  never  leave  me  until  I  send  you  away?" 

"Never,"  be  said. 


gB  Stella's  Fortune. 

"Then  you  will  stay  with  me  forever,"  murmured  Stetta, 
with  a  delicious  blush,  "for  I  shall  never  say  the  wosd 
that  would  part  us." 

"Never — come  what  will,  we  will  never  part,  darling." 
At  that  moment  a  shadow  fell  across  the  room  and  a 
voice,  Stephen  Hargrave's,  said,  roughly: 
*The  bridle's  mended,  and  the  storm's  over." 
Stella  clung  for  a  moment,  with  a  slight  shudder  to  her 
lover,  then  with  a  beautiful  blush  glided  away  with  him. 
Together,  all  in  a  trance — that  delicious  trance  which 
falls  to  a  man's  lot  once  in  his  lifetime — they  traversed 
the  antique  hall,  and  still  in  tranceland  he  held  her  stirrup 
and  guided  the  little  foot  which  she  confided  to  his  hand, 
All  in  a  trance  still  she  heard  him  murmur: 
"Remember!  Never.    This  is  our  secret!" 
And  she  by  a  motion  of  the  lips  signified  that  their  lave 
should  for  the  present  be  a  secret  one. 


(CHAPTER  XIV. 

AN  OFFER  OF  A   HEART. 

I  learnt  dissembling  at  an  early  age. 

And  woman's  looks  were  all  my  page.          — 

Bessie  sped  fast  after  her  rest,  and  Stella  was  soon 
at  home  again. 

Any  woman  well  versed  in  love  tokens  would  have 
been  able  to  read  the  girl's  secret  in  her  happy  eyes 
and  blushing  face,  but  Mrs.  Newton,  so  wrapped  up  in 
her  own  plots  and  schemes,  merely  thought  the  blush 
a  vulgar  flush  produced  by  unladylike  exercise,  and 
said  so. 

Luncheon  over,  Stella  was  about  to  run  away  to  her 
room  for,  a  little  delicious  reflection  and  meditation- 
she  was  dying  to  be  alone  to  think  and  realize ;  but  her 
mother  requested  her  to  remain  and  help  her  wind 
some  silk,  and  Stella,  without  a  murmur,  took  up  her 
position  in  the  orthodox  fashion  and  endured  what  was 
to  her  an  hour  of  mental-  torture. 

When  the  silk  was  wound  in  a  huge  ball  she  arose 
and  was  about  to  make  her  escape,  when  a  gentleman 
rode  up  the  drive,  and  Mrs.  Newton,  in  a  tone  of  exul- 
tation, exclaimed: 

"My  dear,  here  is  Sir  Richard." 

"I  will  go  and  dress,"  said  Stella. 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Newton,  in  an  absolute  tone  of  com- 
mand. "The  idea  of  running  away  the  moment  Sir 
Richard  arrives ;  stay  here." 

Stella  went  back  to  her  chair  with  a  dim  foreboding 
of  coming  evil,  and  the  next  minute  the  footman  an- 
nounced Sir  Richard  Wildfang. 

He  entered,  smilingly,  calm,  and  self-possessed  as 
usual,  and  Stella,  as  she  shook  hands,  noticed  that  he 
was  better  dressed  than  ever. 

His  collar  fitted  around  his  rather  short  neck  with 


Stella? s  Fortune. 

scrupulous  exactness,  his  cravat  was  tied  to  the  quar- 
ter of  an  inch,  and  his  gloves  fitted  like  a  second  skin. 

All  this  was  noticed,  and  she  fancied  that  she  noticed 
also  a  look,  and  a  half  glance  only,  of  comprehension 
pass  between  her  mother  and  him. 

Sir  Richard  inquired  after  their  health  with  the 
greatest  earnestness,  and  soon,  after  a  few  remarks  on 
the  weather,  drew  aside  with  Mrs.  Newton,  with  whom 
he  seemed  to  have  some  business  conversation. 

Stella  heard  something  about  trust  money  and  in- 
vestments, and  fancied  that  she  heard  her  own  name 
mentioned,  but  she  was  indifferent,  and  so  soon  lost  in 
thought  that  when  Sir  Richard  came  up  to  where  she 
had  seated  herself  she  started. 

When  she  looked  around  she  saw  that  her  mother 
had  left  the  room. 

Sir  Richard  stood  over  her,  very  much  as  an  eagle  or 
a  hawk  might  poise  at  some  distance  over  the  bird  he 
had  doomed  to  be  his  prey,  and  regarded  her  in  silence 
for  a  few  minutes,  then  he  said  in  his  most  measured 
and  evenly  polished  voice — so  different  to  that  loved 
voice  which  was  still  ringing  in  her  ears  and  echoing  in 
her  heart: 

"Miss  Newton,  I  have  ridden  over  this  afternoon  on 
a  most  important  matter — so  important  to  me  that  I 
can  liken  it  only  to  a  matter  of  life  and  death." 

Stella  turned  pale,  and  looked  up  at  him  with  eyes 
that  wore  almost  a  look  of  terror. 

"So  important  that  I  hesitate  even  now,  on  the  brink 
of  disclosing  it  to  you.  Miss  Newton — Stella,  if  you 
will  allow  me  to  call  you  by  that  endeared  name — I 
love  you!  Do  not  start,  I  beseech  you!  Pardon  me, 
I  have  declared  the  state  of  my  heart  and  feelings  too 
abruptly.  When  a  man — so  inured  to  the  ways  of  the 
world,  so  apt  in  the  ways  of  men — 'loses  his  heart  so  com- 
pletely as  I  have  done  to  you  he  feels  that  he  cannot  de- 
pend upon  his  old  caution  and  self-possession.  His  pas- 
sion, like  a  torrent,  washes  them  away,  and  he  is  left  to 
float  upon  its  bosom  like  the  veriest  boy  who  has  deserved 
life  by  proving  himself  able  to  love !  My  dear  Miss  New- 
ton— Stella,  as  I  implore  you  to  allow  me  to  call  you — my 
love  is  of  that  character;  it  carries  all  self  before  it.  I 


Stellcts  Fortune.  IOI 

t 

offer  you  my  whole  heart,  for  I  have  never  loved  an- 
other—" 

He  stopped  abruptly  and  started. 

At  that  moment  a  voice  in  the  hall  had  called  on  some 
one  by  the  name  of  Lucy! 

"I — I — I — pardon  me,  but  did  I  hear  any  one  calling?'* 

"No;  not  for  me,"  said  Stella,  too  petrified,  too 
astounded,  too  horrified  even  to  take  advantage  of  the  ex- 
cuse which  he  had  unwittingly  given  her  to  beat  a  retreat. 

"I — I  thought  I  heard  some  one  call  a  woman's  name?" 

"Yes,"  said  Stella,  "some  one  called  Lucy,  one  of  the 
servants." 

"Oh,"  said  Sir  Richard,  "I  feared  we  were  going  to  be 
interrupted.  Miss  Newton,  to  resume,  I  offer  you  my 
love,  whole  and  complete,  I  lay  myself  and  all  I  possess 
at  your  feet.  The  world,  as  you  may  be  aware,  calls  me  a 
rich  man ;  I  may  not  be  without  influence ;  I  may  be  able 
to  place  the  woman  who  becomes  my  wife  in  a  position 
good  enough  to  fill  half  the  fashionable  world  with  envy. 
Miss  Newton,  all  this  I  offer  you  ;will  you  say  yes?  You 
will  not  refuse  me?" 

Stella  arose  and  turned  her  white,  cold  face  toward  him. 

"Yes,  Sir  Richard — I — I  must  refuse." 

"Refuse !"  he  echoed,  staring  at  her  with  the  shadow 
of  a  frown  on  his  brow.  "Surely  you  have  not  con- 
sidered— " 

"I  have  considered  everything,"  said  Stella,  faintly. 

"But — but — if  you  do  not  love  me  you  may  do  so." 

"I  never  can  love  you,  Sir  Richard,"  she  said  distinctly. 

Sir  Richard's  shadow  of  a  frown  deepened  and  became 
a  frown  indeed. 

But  only  for  a  moment,  the  next  it  cleared  from  his 
face  and  the  eyelids  drooped  with  a  splendid  assumption 
of  sorrow. 

"Miss  Newton,  you  would  strike  a  deathblow  to  my 
heart  if  I  did  not  even  yet  allow  myself  to  hope.  I  can 
hope  to  prove  to  you  by  constant  and  untiring  devotion 
how  deeply  I  love  you,  and  to  win  your  love  in  return  if 
I  am  assured  that  your  affections  are  not  placed  else- 
where !" 

He  raised  his  small  dark  eyes  and  fixed  them  with  a 


KJS  Stella's  Fortune. 

covert  scrutiny  on  her  face  while  he  waited  for  her 
answer. 

"That,"  said  Stella,  with  a  touch  of  her  old  pride,  "is  a 
question  you  have  no  right  to  ask,  and  one  that  I  shall  re- 
fuse to  answer." 

Sir  Richard  sighed. 

**Ah,"  he  said,  "your  coldness  cuts  me  to  the  heart.  I 
have  no  right  to  ask,  and  I  will  not.  One  thing  only  may 
I  dare  to  do,  and  that  is  to  warn.  Mv  love  for  you  com- 
pels me  to  fulfill  that  duty.  Miss  Newton,  beware!" 

"Of  what,  Sir  Richard!"  asked  Stella,  eying  him 
proudly. 

"Of  deceit.  Beware  that  you  are  not  already  deceived, 
and  that  the  fruits  shall  be  seen  hereafter.  He  whom  you 
love — I  mention  not  his  name — may  prove  himself  false 
not  only  to  you  but  to  honor — 

"Stop,  Sir  Richard !"  said  Stella  her  face  set  and  pas- 
sionate, her  eyes  all  ablaze,  her  whole  lithe,  graceful  body 
strained  to  its  full  height.  "Spare  your  malice;  such 
warnings  are  by  me  unheeded.  If  he  whom  I  have 
chosen — be  he  whosoever  he  may — should  prove  false 
to  honor — I  say  not  to  me,  but  to  honor — I  will " 

Sir  Richard  broke  in  before  she  could  continue: 

"Will  thank  me  for  what  I  have  said  and  give  me 
hope !" 

"Yes,"  said  Stella,  with  a  scornful  smile,  "I  dare  risk 
even  so  much,  Sir  Richard,  on  the  faith  I  hold  in  the 
hoaor  of  the  individual  you  so  malign." 

Then,  as  he  bowed  down  before  her  with  a  silent 
gesture  of  humble  devotion,  she  swept  from  the  room. 

Reach  a  woman's  heart  and  she  is  a  lamb,  touch  her 
pride  and  she  is  a  lioness. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  DWARF'S  BURDEN. 

He  who  loves  not  children 

Is  possessed  of  half  a  heart, 

And  that  not  over  soft. 

Children  are  the  flowers  of  humanity. 

A  lover  of  the  ordinary  type  would  have  owned  him- 
self vanished  and  accepted  the  defeat  which  Miss  New- 
ton's refusal  signified,  but  Sir  Richard  Wildfang  was 
the  opposite  to  a  lover  of  the  ordinary  type,  and 
mounted  his  horse  with  the  calmest  of  calm  hearts  and 
rode  away  with  the  most  assured  and  contented  smile. 

Quite  placid  and  unmoved  was  his  face,  but  within 
his  heart  there  was  a  secret  spring  of  malice  and 
hatred  which  only  his  marvelous  power  of  repression 
kept  from  bubbling  over. 

At  one  time  he  had  fallen  almost  in  love  with  the 
proud,  beautiful  girl — almost  only,  for  such  men  as  Sir 
Richard  are  incapable  of  feeling  true  love  in  all  its  ful- 
ness and  significance ;  he  had  admired  her  beauty,  her 
grace,  her  fresh,  unsullied  nature,  and  he  had  congrat- 
ulated himself  mentally  upon  acquiring  something 
more  than  the  money,  a  sort  of  makeweight  also,  when 
he  should  make  Stella  Newton  Lady  Wildfang.  But 
now  the  girl's  scorn,  her  plainly  expressed  contempt 
for  him,  her  display  of  her  knowledge  of  his  real  char- 
acter, maddened  and  galled  him.  The  feeling  which 
Sir  Richard  had  dignified  by  the  name  of  love  was 
turned  to  unadulterated  hate,  and  as  he  rode  along  he 
thought  within  his  calculating  brain: 

"Wait  till  you  are  my  wife,  my  proud,  insolent  lady, 
and  I  will  teach  you  that  it  is  unwise  to  show  contempt 
to  one  who  is  able  to  resent  and  punish  it." 

With  the  same  smile  he  rode  the  next  morning 
through  the  park.  Suddenly,  however,  his  keem  eyes 

108 


IO4  Stella's  fortune. 

discerned  a  slight,  graceful  figure  which  was  ascending 
the  hill  and  which  revealed  itself  as  Mr.  Felton's. 

Coming  up  with  a  lithe,  easy  spring,  his  hands 
thrust  into  the  pockets  of  his  pea-jacket,  he  looked  up, 
with  a  smile,  frank,  genial  and  friendly,  and  nodded. 

Sir  Richard  raised  his  hat  and  smiled  also,  with  a 
very  fair  imitation  of  the  other's  frankness. 

"Good-morning,"  he  said.    "Seasonable  weather." 

"Very,"  said  Mr.  Felton,  stopping  and  eying  the 
horse  with  artistic  criticism ;  "your  horse  seems  to  en- 
joy it." 

Sir  Richard  smiled. 

"Yes ;  he  has  the  best  of  it  to-day.  Are  you  bound  for 
a  long  walk?" 

"I  am  going  to  London,"  replied  Louis,  frankly. 

"Ah,"  said  Sir  Richard,  "your  lawsuit  consumes  a 
great  deal  of  your  time  and  attention,  I  dare  say." 

Louis  Felton  looked  up  at  him  with  a  smile  of  sur- 
prise. 

"You  know  of  it?"  he  said. 

"Who  does  not?"  replied  Sir  Richard.  "It  is  a  great 
case  and  if  you  win  you  will  be  a  rich  man,  Mr.  Felton." 

"And  if  I  lose,"  said  the  other,  good-humoredly.  "I 
shall  scarcely  be  poorer  than  I  am." 

"You  will  still  be  master  of  Heavithorne,"  said  Sir 
Richard  with  a  courteous  bow. 

"A  grand  position,"  laughed  Louis  Felton.  *'I  shall  be 
myself,  which  is  of  more  consequence." 

"Exactly,"  said  Sir  Richard,  with  charming  readiness. 
"By  the  way,  how  does  my  old  servant  suit  you  ?" 

"Very  well,"  replied  the  other.  "He  is  a  good  servant, 
I  think,  though  rough,  as  you  warned  me  he  would  be." 

"Yes,"  said  Sir  Richard.  "An  honest  fellow,  no  doubt, 
but  a  perfect  bear." 

"Perfect  bears  are  not  always  unbearable,"  remarked 
Louis,  with  a  laugh. 

And  Sir  Richard,  laughing  also,  in  the  very  pleasantest 
manner,  exchanged  audieus  and  rode  off. 

"Going  to  London,"  he  muttered.  "Poor  idiot!  He 
looks  as  happy  as  a  child,  and,  like  a  child,  thinks  that  all 
the  world  lies  before  him.  My  unsophisticated  friend, 
there  is  a  mine  beneath  your  feet,  and  I  hold  the  match 


Stella's  Fortune.  105 

which,  applied  to  the  train,  shall  be  the  means  of  blowing 
your  airy  expectations  to  the  high  heavens!" 

With  a  malignant  smile  he  touched  the  horse  with  his 
spurs  and  galloped  on. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  hill  another  figure  attracted  his 
attention. 

It  was  that  of  Stephen  Hargrave,  plodding  along  with 
bent  head  and  sullen  gait. 

Sir  Richard  pulled  his  horse  up  into  a  walk,  and  when 
he  had  got  up  beside  the  man,  said,  in  a  low,  clear  voice, 
and  looking  straight  ahead  of  him : 

"Don't  turn,  but  listen.  I  have  just  parted  from  him. 
He  is  going  up  to  London,  and  will  be  out  of  the  way. 
Come  up  to  the  Box  tonight,  and  I  will  let  you  in  by 
the  side  entrance.  You  understand?" 

"Ay,"  said  the  man,  gruffly,  and  Sir  Richard  trotted  on 
again. 

Louis  Felton  walked  quickly  along  in  the  opposite  di- 
rection. 

His  smile  was  no  hollow  one ;  all  the  world  seemed  light 
and  happy  to  him.  Life  as  it  appeared  to  him  this  morn- 
ing was  a  delicious  poem. 

The  air  seemed  full  of  love,  the  birds  warbled  it  in  the 
leafless  trees,  the  sun  poured  it  out  upon  the  crisp  land- 
scape, and  the  skies  proclaimed  it  in  cerulean  tints  and 
clear,  fleecy  clouds. 

As  he  walked  along  he  went  over  the  scene  of  yester- 
day, went  over  the  delicious,  half-whispered  words  and 
sweet  looks,  and  glowed  with  hope  and  ecstasy. 

Never  did  a  journey  seem  so  short,  so  enjoyable.  Even 
London,  itself,  once  so  unpoetic  and  repulsive  to  the 
artistic  sense,  was  transformed  into  something  different 
and  better. 

Every  one  he  met  wore  a  pleasanter  aspect;  familiar 
faces  seemed  to  have  grown  younger  and  handsomer. 

He  was  in  love,  hopefully  in  love,  and  he  saw  every- 
thing through  the  rose-colored  spectacles  which  the  sly 
Cupid  had  slipped  over  his  eyes. 

As  Sir  Richard  had  intimated,  law  business  had  taken 
him  to  town,  and  there  were  lawyers  to  see  and  legal 
form  and  data  to  be  gone  into. 


lo6  Stella's  Fortune. 

To  his  artistic  nature  the  whole  business  was  weari- 
some and  distasteful  in  the  extreme,  and  when  the  inter- 
views were  over  he  ran  from  the  lawyer's  chambers  with 
a  sigh  of  relief,  and  felt  inclined  to  throw  up  his  hat  for 
very  joy. 

Little  matter  how  his  lawsuit  went,  whether  he  were  to 
be  rich  or  poor!  Stella,  his  beautiful  darling-,  was  his, 
and  he  felt  able  to  take  the  world  by  siege  and  conquer 
all  its  difficulties. 

"Now,  how  soon  can  I  get  back?"  he  thought.  "I 
must  get  back!  Every  minute  seems  an  age  while  I  am 
away  from  the  neighborhood  of  my  darling." 

He  found  that  he  could  not  return  till  late  at  night, 
so,  with  the  same  glamour  upon  him,  he  buttoned  his  coat 
around  him  and  set  off  for  a  ramble  whithersoever  his 
feet  and  mood  might  take  him. 

No  matter  whither !  He  could  think  of  his  love  in  the 
park  or  in  the  city  in  West-End  square  or  East-End 
alley. 

Wandering  thus,  he  reached  St.  Giles',  his  happy  face 
smiling  upon  the  children  as  they  ran  across  his  path, 
and  his  hands  often  dragged  from  his  pocket  to  put  them 
with  a  kindly  laugh  out  of  his  way. 

Like  all  true-hearted  men,  the  sculptor  was  fond  of 
children,  and  the  children  knew  it. 

Not  one  of  the  little  ones  but  smiled  up  at  him,  and 
many  crowed  or  obstinately  refused  to  move  as  his  hands 
touched  them. 

St.  Giles'  is  full  of  children,  and  they,  necessarily,  kept 
him  there. 

At  last,  as  he  was  thinking  that  he  might  as  well  ob- 
tain something  more  substantial  by  way  of  refreshment 
than  his  love's  dream,  and  was  about  to  turn  out  into  one 
of  the  larger  thoroughfares,  he  was  attracted  by  a  strange 
sight. 

A  little,  misshapen  old  man,  with  a  battered  hat  and  a 
long  coat,  made  for  a  figure  thrice  the  wearer's  size,  came 
hobbling1  around  the  corner,  with  something  bulky  but- 
toned up  in  his  breast. 

The  figure  with  the  old  hat,  and  the  long1  arm  that 
swung  by  the  man's  side,  was  so  noticeable  that  the  artist 


Stella's  Fortune. 

was  attracted  by  it  in  a  remarkable  degree,  and  even 
stopped  short  in  his  easy  walk  to  observe  it. 

The  old  man,  having  his  head  bent,  apparently  in  the 
act  of  talking  to  the  something  he  carried  in  his  coat,  did 
not  observe  the  halt,  and  ran  up  against  the  younger  man 
as  the  latter  made  an  ineffective  movement  to  get  out 
of  his  way. 

The  collision  was  so  violent  and  so  unexpected  that 
the  dwarf  staggered,  his  battered  hat  fell  off  his  head, 
and  the  something  nearly  tumbled  out  of  his  coat. 

However,  by  a  sudden  alarmed  clutch  with  his  long 
arm,  he  prevented  that  mishap,  and  stood  glaring  up  at 
Louis  Felton  with  an  angry  countenance,  as  gnarled  and 
lined  as  an  old  wood  carving. 

"I  am  so  sorry,"  said  the  young  man,  stooping  and 
picking  up  his  hat.  "It  was  very  clumsy  and  awkward 
of  me." 

The  dwarf  uttered  something,  and  snatched  the  hat  oat 
of  the  young  man's  hand. 

As  he  did  so  he  revealed  the  something  to  be  a  beauti- 
ful little  boy,  whose  curly  head  peeked  out  from  beneath 
the  thick  fold  of  the  old  coat  like  a  gem  from  an  old 
jewel  case. 

"What  a  beautiful  child !"  exclaimed  Louis,  his  artistic 
eye  attracted  and  chained.  "Oh,  I  hope  I  have  not  hurt 
him !" 

"No,  no,"  said  the  old  man  impatiently.  "Just  put  my 
hat  on,  will  yer?  We  ain't  neither  of  us  hurt,  though 
we  might  'a'  been.  We  ain't  used  to  human  lampposts 
stuck  in  the  middle  of  the  pavement.  When  you  goes  to 
strike  a  attitude  again,  young  man,  just  do  so  on  the 
curb  or  in  the  middle  of  the  road.  Hosses  ain't  got  no 
children  to  be  banged  about." 

Louis  put  the  hat  on  as  gently  as  he  could — too  gently, 
indeed,  for  the  old  man  gave  it  a  ram  with  angry  empha- 
sis— and  was  about  to  pass  on,  but  the  child,  who  had 
been  gazing  up  at  him  with  a  pair  of  exquisite  blue  eyes, 
chuckled  and  insisted  upon  stopping  to  get  a  better  view. 

"Old  Father  Sam,  me  want  to  see." 

The  old  man,  who  was  just  trotting  on,  pulled  up  and 
jealously  pulled  the  coat  a  little  farther  open. 


io8  Stella's  Fortune. 

"There,"  he  said,  in  a  very  much  softer  voice,  "there. 
Take  a  good  look  at  him,  and  let's  run  on,  my  angel. 
He's  an  orkard,  clumsy  chap,  ain't  he?" 

"No,  he  isn't,"  said  the  child,  thrusting  out  his  tiny 
hand  toward  Louis  and  smiling  up  at  him. 

Louis  stopped  and  touched  the  little  hand  with  tender 
sympathy. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "he's  forgiven  me,  you  see.  What  a 
beautiful  child !  He's  a  model !" 

The  dwarf  covered  up  the  little  arm  jealously,  and, 
with  a  gruff  "good  day,"  trotted  off. 

Louis  Felton  looked  after  them  with  curious  interest. 

"A  grandfather  and  grandson,"  he  murmured.  "How 
he  treasures  the  little  fellow !  Who  says  there  is  no  love 
among  the  poor?" 

He  turned  to  walk  on,  and  saw  a  little  crimson  shoe 
lying  upon  the  pavement.  He  picked  it  up  and  smiled. 

"We  are  bound  to  make  acquaintance,"  he  said  to  him- 
self. "Now,  I  hope  the  old  fellow  isn't  out  of  sight,  for 
one  lost  shoe  is  as  good  as  a  pair,  and  perhaps  he  can't 
well  afford  to  get  another.  So  here  goes,"  and,  with 
the  shoe  in  his  hand,  he  walked  quickly  in  the  direction 
which  the  dwarf  and  child  had  taken. 

But  the  short  legs  of  the  old  man  were  nimble,  though 
they  were  crooked,  and,  after  going  the  length  of  the 
street  without  seeing  the  old  man,  Louis  stopped  per- 
plexed, and  at  last  asked  a  policeman  if  he  had  seen 
them. 

"Dwarf  carryin'  a  bundle  ?    Lost  anything,  sir  ?" 

"No,"  laughed  the  sculptor.  "Found  instead.  Which 
way  did  they  go?" 

"Up  Paradise  Alley,  sir.    It's  old  Growls  and  his  boy." 

"A  well-known  character?"  said  the  sculptor,  inter- 
ruptingly. 

"I  should  think  so,"  smiled  the  policeman.  "Old  Sam 
and  his  boy  are  known  all  through  St.  Giles*.  A  reg'lar 
rum  old  chap,  rough  as  a  nutmeg  grater,  but  as  fond  o* 
the  child  as  a  hen  is  of  her  chickens.  He's  afraid  to 
let  the  air  blow  upon  it,  and  as  to  anybody  touchin'  it, 
why,  it's  more  than  their  life's  worth.  No.  2  Paradise 
Alley ;  first  turning  on  your  left" 


Stella's  Fortune.  109 

Thanking  the  communicative  constable,  Louis  retraced 
his  steps  once  more,  and  entered  Paradise  Alley,  sought 
out  No.  2,  and  knocked  at  the  door. 

It  was  opened  almost  instantly,  and  the  dwarf  ap- 
peared. 

"What  d'ye  mean  a'knockin'  like  a  postman  and  awak- 
ing children  as  if  you  was  paid  by  the  guvment  a'  pur- 
pose? What  is  it?" 

"I  am  very  sorry.  I  did  not  mean  to  knock  loudly," 
said  Louis,  good-humoredly.  "I  found  this  little  shoe  on 
the  pavement  near  the  spot  where  you  were  standing, 
and  I  brought  it  to  you.  It  would  have  been  a  pity  for 
the  little  fellow  to  lose  such  a  pretty  little  boot." 

"Oh,"  said  the  old  man,  with  a  mollified  air.  "I'm 
much  obliged — we're  much  obliged,  I  should  say,  seein' 
as  the  shoes  is  his ;  and  I'll  say  as  we  should  a'  been  sorry 
to  lose  it,  seein'  as  how  I  made  it  o'  purpose  for  him, 
and  them's  his  favorites." 

"You  are  quite  welcome,"  said  Louis,  "and  I  hope  I 
have  not  disturbed  him." 

"No,  not  as  I  knows  on — I  don't  hear  him,"  said  the 
old  man,  putting  his  head  on  one  side  like  a  jackdaw. 
"He's  a  beautiful  boy,  ain't  he?" 

"The  finest  I  ever  saw,"  said  Louis,  honestly.  "I 
should  beg  another  look  at  him  if  I  dared." 

The  old  man  hesitated,  and  eyed  him  keenly. 

"Well,  you've  been  kind,"  he  said,  reluctantly.  "You 
can  come  in  and  look  at  him  if  you  like." 

Louis  waited  for  no  warmer  invitation,  but,  following 
his  host's  example,  trod  on  tiptoe  and  entered  the  little 
parlor  with  the  red  curtains  and  the  smoke-dried  canary. 

The  dwarf  noiselessly  trotted  around  the  room,  and 
cautiously  lifted  the  counterpane  from  a  little  cot,  neatly 
constructed  from  an  egg  box,  and,  with  a  loving  smile 
of  admiration,  pointed  at  its  occupant. 

Nestling  in  its  little  bed  the  child  formed  a  picture 
sufficiently  beautiful  to  delight  an  artist's  eyes.  The 
sculptor  was  simply  enthralled. 

"Exquisite !"  he  exclaimed.  "What  a  head !  Leonardo 
de  Vinci  alone  could  do  it  justice!" 

"I  don't  know  who  Lean  Lardy  Deaf  Incey  is,"  said 


no  Stella's  Fortune. 

the  old  man,  in  a  gruff  whisper,  "but  whoever  says  there's 
a  more  beautiful  child  than  my  boy  departs  from  the 
truth." 

"He  is  your  boy?"  said  Louis. 

"Mine?"  said  old  Growls,  sharply,  and  with  a  sus- 
picious glance  at  the  young  man's  face,  still  bent  toward 
the  child.  "Of  course  he  is ;  whose  else  should  he  be  ?" 

"I  heard  him  call  you  father,"  mused  Louis. 

"Old  Father  Sam,"  corrected  the  old  man.  "You  see 
what  name  he  was  to  call  me  did  perplex  me  considerable. 
I've  knowed  boys  as  was  afeerd  of  their  fathers,  and  I 
didn't  want  this  'ere  precious  to  be  that  o'  me.  so  I  thought 
Father  Sam  'ud  sound  more  pleasant  an'  familiar  like, 
more  as  we  was  the  best  o'  friends,  allus.  Then,  when  I 
see  my  grizzled  old  mug  in  that  glass,  I  says,  'Go  along 
with  you,  you  impedent  old  vagabon',  you're  too  old  by  a 
hundred  years  to  be  his  father !'  And  yet  I  didn't  like  to 
drop  it,  neither,  cos  you  see  it  sounded  so  pretty,  comin* 
from  his  cherry  lips,  so  I  taught  him  to  call  me  Old 
Father  Sam,  which,  though  it  do  sound  like  a  comic  song, 
is  a  pleasant,  friendly  sort  o'  name." 

"And  what  is  his  name?"  asked  Louis. 

"Snowdrop  Christmas,"  said  the  old  man. 

Louis  expressed  his  surprise. 

"A  pretty  name,  but  a  strange  one.  Was  he  chris- 
tened so?" 

"No,  he  warn't,"  said  the  man,  sharply.  "But  that 
ain't  neither  here  nor  there.  He's  my  boy,  ain't  he,  and 
I've  got  the  risrht  to  call  him  what  I  like,  so  as  he  don't 
object,  ain't  I?" 

"Certainly,  certainly,"  agreed  Louis,  promptly.  "And 
I  hope  he  will  grow  up  to  be  as  great  a  joy  and  happiness 
to  you  as  the  day  itself  is  to  the  whole  world." 

"Amen,"  said  the  old  man.  "There  ain't  no  fear  o' 
that.  Angels  don't  grow  up  nothink  else.  He's  a  angel, 
ain't  he?" 

"He  is,"  said  Louis.  "I  am  almost  inclined,  made  bold 
by  your  kindness,  to  prefer  a  request.  I  am  a  sculptor ; 
will  you  let  me  take  him — " 

"None  o'  that !"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  edging  m  be- 


Stella's  Fortune.  in 

tween  the  cot  and  Louis,  and  pushing  him  back  with  an 
air  of  mingled  anger  and  alarm.  "What  right  have  you 
to  take  him  ?  Who  are  you  ?  He's  mine  I  I'm — his — his 
father!" 

"Oh,  you  mistake  me,"  said  Louis,  eagerly.  "I  did  not 
mean  to  deprive  you  of  him,  dear  little  fellow!  I  only 
want  to  take  a  sketch  of  him — to  reproduce  it  in  marble." 

"Oh,"  said  the  old  man.  "What  1  draw  his  picter  for  a 
tombstone?  Not  if  I  knows  it!" 

Louis  repressed  a  smile. 

"Not  for  a  tombstone,  but  for  a  grand  house;  for  a 
beautiful  garden,  perhaps,  in  the  country.  You  would  not 
mind  seeing  a  portrait  of  him  standing  amid  beautiful 
flowers,  and  within  sound  of  a  tinkling  fountain?" 

"No,"  said  the  old  man,  his  eyes  glistening.  "That's 
where  it  ought  to  be.  If  that's  all,  you  can  take  a  sketch 
of  him  and  carve  him  out.  I  thought  as  you  meant  to 
make  one  of  them  cherubs  of  him  as  you  see  poking  out 
o'  tombstones,  with  nothing  to  set  on,  and  blowin'  penny 
trumpets.  I  shouldn't  a  liked  that." 

Louis  laughed,  and  took  out  his  sketchbook. 

"No,  I  give  you  a  guarantee  that  he  shall  not  figure 
on  a  tombstone.  What  a  head  it  is !  If  marble  were  gold 
it  could  not  represent  that  delicate  tint  in  his  hair.  A 
dear  little  fellow!" 

So  saying,  he  rapidly  drew  a  sketch,  sufficiently  graph- 
ic to  enable  him  to  cut  it  in  marble,  and  held  it  out  for 
the  old  man's  inspection. 

Old  Father  Sam  was  in  ecstasies. 

"Why,  it's  his  very  blessed  self!"  he  exclaimed.  "And 
this  'ere's  going  to  be  done  in  marble!"  he  added,  wist- 
fully. "Where  is  it  going  to  be  stowed?  I'd — I'd  like  to 
see  it!" 

"So  you  shall,"  said  Louis,  and,  tearing  a  leaf  from  his 
sketchbook,  he  wrote  his  name  and  the  address  of  the 
Hut,  in  Heavithorne.  "There,"  he  said,  "come  down  in 
a  week,  and  you  shall  see  him.  You  know  where  it  is—- 
it is  not  far,  and  bring  the  little  fellow  with  you.  You 
won't  forget?" 

"No,"  said  the  old  man,  "if  so  be  Christmas  don't  ob- 


113  Stelltfs  Fortune. 

ject — and,  mind  you,  he  has  his  likes  and  dislikes  like  a 
hemperor — why,  hell  come." 

Louis  shook  hands,  and  after  another  glance  at  the 
child,  left  the  room,  placing  on  the  table  as  he  passed 
around  it  on  tiptoe,  a  five-pound  note. 


CHAPTER  XVI, 


O»ly  *  pictnre!  only  a  touch! 
Of  dead  fingers  on  live  heart  ehordsl 
Only  a  remembrance  of  the  past  wbieh 
l"he  present  unendurable. 

Sir  Richard  was  not  an  idle  man,  even  in  his  holiday 
moments.  He  had  set  apart  a  room  in  the  Box  for  his 
study,  library,  counting-house,  or  whatever  he  liked  to 
call  it,  and  was  at  work  there,  writing  and  calculating 
with  his  usual  smooth  placidity,  when  Stephen  Har- 
grave's  signal  gave  him  notice  of  the  man's  proximity. 

Sir  Richard  pushed  his  writing  on  one  side,  and  softly 
opened  a  small  door,  which  served  as  a  means  of  com- 
munication with  the  small  garden  at  the  back. 

"Are  you  there?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  a  man's  voice. 

And  the  next  moment  Stephen  Hargrave  entered. 

Sir  Richard  quietly  closed  the  door,  and,  pointing  to  a 
chair  near  the  fire,  resumed  his  own  seat  and  his  work 
as  if  such  a  being  as  Stephen  Hargrave  never  existed. 

The  man  sat  in  grim  silence,  staring  at  the  fire  for  a 
time  with  a  gloomy,  absorbed  air. 

At  last  he  raised  his  head,  and  eyed  the  calm  face  of 
his  master 

The  glance  was  a  curious  one ;  its  elements  were  made 
up  of  a  rough  sort  of  gratitude,  a  grim,  ignorant  kind  of 
fear,  and  a  slight  suspicion  of  dislike. 

Sir  Richard,  raising  his  own  eyes,  met  the  glance,  and, 
seemingly  recalled  to  a  sense  of  the  man's  presence,  said : 

"Well,  he  has  not  returned  ?" 

"No,"  replied  Stephen  Hargrave,  "not  vet  He  comes 
by  the  last  train." 

Sir  Richard  consulted  his  watch. 

Ufl 


114  Stellaf*  Fortune. 

"Then  there  is  no  great  time  to  waste.    You  arc  sare 

he  has  no  suspicion?" 

"I'm  as  sure  as  a  man  can  be,  master,"  was  the  grun 
reply. 

"None  saw  you  enter  the  garden?" 
Stephen  Hargrave  shook  his  head. 
"No  one." 

"That's  well,"  said  Sir  Richard,  with  quiet  approval 
"You  cannot  be  too  cautious;  remember.  Should  we 
rouse  his  suspicions,  we  fail  in  the  object  I  have  in  view. 
Remember  that,  and  when  I  send  for  you,  take  all  precau- 
tions to  reach  me  unobserved." 

The  man  nodded. 

"Has — has  Miss  Newton  spoken  with  him  since  the 
time  you  told  me  of?" 

"No,"  said  his  spy.  "He  went  off  by  the  train  this 
morning1,  as  you  know.  They  have  not  met  since  yester- 
day, when — •" 

"Yes,  yes ;  I  know,  you  told  me,"  interrupted  Sir  Rich- 
ard, with  a  frown.  "Mind  they  do  not  meet  without  your 
knowing-  it ;  you  must  watch  them  as  keenly  as  a  weasel 
does  a  pair  of  rabbits.  When  or  where  they  meet  yon 
must  be  near  enough  to  hear  what  they  say.  I  must- 
understand  me — I  must  know  all  their  plans." 

The  man  nodded. 

"Have  you  brought  the  paper?"  asked  Sir  Richard,  al- 
ter a  pause,  during-  which  Stephen  Hargrave  stared  at 
the  fire  with  the  same  settled  look  of  stolid  gloom. 

Sir  Richard  had  to  repeat  the  question  again  before  h 
awakened  any  response,  and  then  it  was  with  a  certain 
dreamy  absence  of  mind  that  the  spy  unbuttoned  his  coat, 
took  a  sheet  of  paper  from  his  pocket,  and  handed  it  to 
his  principal. 

Sir  Richard  took  it,  and  spreading  it  out  upon  the  table 
before  him,  examined  it  with  leisurely  scrutiny. 

"Are  you  certain  this  is  his  handwriting?"  he  asked. 

"I  saw  him  write  it ;  I  cut  it  out  of  the  book  with  my 
own  hands.  It  is  his  writing,  master." 

"Good,"  said  Sir  Richard.  "Now  you  had  better  go. 
Remember,  you  cannot  be  too  cautious.  If  you  pass  me 
in  the  road,  do  not  touch  your  hat,  as  yon  did  a  few  dav» 


Stella's  Fortune.  115 

;  it  may  arouse  suspicion.  Better,  if  you  can  cto  ^ 
fiaturally,  say  a  few  ill-natured  things  about  me  in  tfi* 
village.  You  can  say  what  you  like,  so  that  you  do  not 
unwittingly  tell  the  truth — you  understand  ?" 

"I'll  say  you  are  a  hard  master,"  said  the  man,  raising 
his  dark,  morose  eyes  to  his  master's  face. 

Sir  Richard  smiled. 

"Certainly ;  anything  of  that  sort  to  throw  dust  in  their 
eyes." 

The  man  rose. 

"Stay,"  said  Sir  Richard.  "You  will  find  a  decanter 
of  spirits  and  a  glass  on  that  bureau.  Help  yourself." 

But  the  man  shook  his  head,  and  put  the  offer  aside, 
as  it  were,  with  a  jerk  of  his  rough  hand. 

"Good  night,  master,"  he  said. 

"Good  night,  my  good  Stephen,"  said  Sir  Richard. 

And  the  man  went  silently  into  the  night  again. 

Sir  Richard  returned  to  his  desk  and  took  up  the  sheet 
of  paper. 

"A  strange  fellow,"  he  muttered.  "But  I  can  rely  upon 
him.  I  know  that  expression  so  well ;  it  was  fear.  When 
a  man  serves  me  from  gratitude,  I  am  not  sure  of  him-— 
gratitude  is  so  unnatural ;  but  when  he  fears,  then  I  feel 
safe.  Now  let  me  see.  A  good  hand,  and  easy  to  imitate 
— notes  on  art.  Bah !  He  will  have  something  else  to  think 
of  before  I  am  done  with  him !  Yes,  the  writing  is  easy 
to  forge,  and  the  name — let  me  try." 

So  saying  he  pulled  a  sheet  of  paper  from  his  stand, 
and  carefully  imitated  the  signature,  "Louis  Felton," 
which  was  carelessly  scrawled  at  the  bottom  of  the  sheet 
before  him. 

"Easy  enough  after  a  little  practice,"  he  muttered,  ex-» 
amining  his  handiwork  critically.  "I  wonder  there  are 
not  more  forgeries,  even  than  there  are ;  it  is  so  easy— so 
easy!" 


A  bright  fire  was  burning  in  the  old  dining-room  of 
the  Hut.  A  small  and  particularly  plain  supper  was  set 
out  upon  the  table,  and  Stephen  Hargrave  stood  look- 
ing down  into  the  flames,  waiting  for  his  master. 


Ii6  Stella's  Fortune. 

That  he  bore  his  master  no  hate  might  have  been  de- 
duced by  the  care  with  which  he  had  made  ready  for  his 
appearance. 

The  fire  was  a  welcome ;  the  chair  drawn  close  up  to  it 
was  a  welcome,  and  Stephen  Hargrave's  attitude,  as  he 
stood  listening,  was  a  welcome  in  its  gloomy,  abstracted 
way. 

Presently  there  was  a  ring  at  the  bell.,  the  door  was 
opened  by  the  lad  who  served  as  Stephen  Hargrave's  as- 
sistant, and  Louis  entered. 

Snow  was  on  his  coat,  and  his  face  was  flushed  with  the 
exercise  and  the  night  cold. 

"Well,  Stephen,  my  man!"  he  exclaimed,  cheerily, 
shading  his  eyes  from  the  light  of  the  lamp  and  fire. 
"Here  I  am  back  at  last !  What  a  cheerful  room !  Why, 
man,  you  have  all  the  neatness  of  a  woman.  What  a 
glorious  fire !  Ah,  put  the  coat  to  dry  somewhere,  it's  sat- 
urated with  snow.  A  wild  night,  but  a  grand  one." 

And  he  sank  into  the  comfortable  chair  and  rubbed 
his  hands  over  the  fire. 

Stephen  left  the  room  silently,  and  as  speechlessly  re- 
entered,  with  a  dish  of  steaming  mutton  chops. 

"Splendid!"  exclaimed  the  hungry  Louis,  as  he  drew 
his  chair  up  to  the  table.  "Cooked  to  perfection,  too; 
Stephen,  you  are  an  artist!" 

Then,  with  all  a  hungry  man's  zest,  he  finished  the 
chops,  drank  two  cups  of  coffee,  and  subsided  into  the 
easy-chair  again,  with  a  contented,  happy  look  on  his 
face  which  seemed  to  set  the  fire  laughing  with  sympathy. 

"Well,  and  how  have  things  gone?  Anything  hap- 
pened?" 

"No;  what  should?"  replied  Stephen  Hargrave, 
roughly. 

"Nothing,  while  you  were  here  to  keep  charge,  my 
faithful  bear,"  replied  Louis  laughing  good-naturedly, 
"I  can't  think  why  your  late  master  parted  with  you, 
Stephen.  He  must  have  cared  more  for  veneer  than  good, 
stout  oak.  But,"  he  added,  more  gently,  and  with  a 
kindly  anxiety  in  his  frank,  open  eyes,  "you  look  more 
glum  than  usual  tonight,  Stephen;  what  is  the  matter? 
My  good  fellow,  would  that  I  could  persuade  yen  mat » 


Stella's  Fortune.  117 

sorrow  shared  is  decreased  one-half.  Tell  me  what  lies 
on  your  mind,  Stephen ;  I'll  help  you  to  be  rid  of  it  if  I 
can." 

He  even  in  his  kind-hearted  sympathy,  laid  his  hand 
upon  the  man's  sleeve  as  he  bent  to  arrange  the  fire. 

Stephen  Hargrave  shrank  from,  his  touch  and  averted 
his  face. 

"Nothing  ails  me,"  he  said,  in  his  usual  sullen  way, 
"What  should?  Can't  a  man  keep  a  silent  tongue  if  he 
likes?  You  didn't  engage  me  to  chatter  like  a  parrot, 
master." 

"No,  nor  to  play  perpetual  mute,  Stephen,"  replied 
Louis,  gently.  "But  there,  I'll  say  no  more  if  my  ques- 
tions pain  you.  I  meant  them  kindly,  my  man,  believe 
that ;  and  tonight  I  feel  so  happy  that  a  sad"  face  jars  upon 
me.  Ah,  Stephen,  lad,  if  you'd  seen  what  I  have  seen  to- 
day you'd  lose  something  of  your  misanthropy!  an  old 
man  and  a  child !  That  is  all,  and  yet  what  a  love !  Angels 
might  sing  its  praises  and  be  guilty  of  no  profanity.  I 
saw  them,  Stephen,  in  a  gloomy,  miserable  little  room  in 
a  dirty,  miserable  alley,  but  the  room  was  a  heaven  to 
the  old  man  while  his  boy — his  golden-haired  darling — 
was  within  it.  A  deep,  tender,  true  love,  and  yet  some- 
what strange.  That  reminds  me ;  Stephen,  fetch  my  coat, 
will  you?" 

Stephen  Hargrave  finished  his  work  at  the  fireplace, 
then,  without  a  word,  left  the  room  and  brought  the  coat 
on  his  arm ;  in  his  hand  he  carried  a  tray  with  some  whis- 
key and  hot  water. 

"Now,  now !"  said  Louis,  as  he  saw  the  nature  of  his 
burden.  "What  did  I  tell  you?  I  am  not  an  old  man, 
and  don't  require  cosseting,  and,  as  for  spirits,  I've 
enough  of  my  own.  There,  don't  look  so  glum,  man.  I'll 
drink  a  glass  of  it  to  drive  the  gloom  from  your  honest 
face.  Mix  me  a  glass — weak,  mind." 

Stephen,  with  slow  movements,  poured  out  the  spirit 
and  added  the  water. 

While  he  did  so,  Louis  rose  with  the  coat,  took  the 
sketch  from  his  pocket,  and,  carrying  it  to  an  easel,  took 
up  some  crayons  and  colored  it  with  a  quick,  practiced 
hand,  the  hair,  the  eyes,  and  the  cheek. 


Ii8  Stella's  Fortune. 

The  color  gave  expression  and  character  to  the  face, 
and  the  young  man,  with  a  laugh  of  admiration,  carried  k 
to  the  table. 

"There,  Stephen,  is  not  that  a  fine  boy?"  he  said,  hold- 
ing it  up  for  him  to  see. 

Stephen  Hargrave  was  on  his  way  to  the  fire  with  the 
small  kettle  in  his  hand. 

Before  he  set  it  on  the  hob  he  turned  his  head  in  obe- 
dience to  his  master's  "There !"  and  looked  at  the  picture. 

Suddenly  the  kettle  fell  with  a  dull  crash  to  the  ground, 
an  exclamation  of  anguish  and  astonishment  rang 
through  the  room,  and  Louis,  turning  his  head,  saw  has 
man,  Stephen  Hargrave,  standing,  with  outstretched 
hands  and  a  pale  face,  staring  at  the  picture  as  if  it  were 
a  ghost  or  the  face  of  one  long  since  dead. 

"Stephen!"  he  exclaimed,  dropping  the  sketch.  "What 
ails  you,  man?  Are  you  ill? — are  you — " 

"I've  dropped  the  kettle  and  scalded  myself,'*  said  Ste- 
phen Hargrave,  hoarsely.  "Couldn't  ye  wait  with  your 
pictures  and  rubbish  till  I'd  done?" 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  said  Louis,  disregarding  the  imperti- 
nence of  the  speech.  "My  good  man,  you  seem  fated  to 
ill  fortune.  Here,  let  me  ring  for  David ;  he  shall  go  for 
the  doctor.  Where  did  the  water  fall  ?" 

"Nowhere,"  was  the  sullen  reply;  "nowhere  to  hurt. 
I  don't  want  no  doctor.  I  know  what  to  do.  Good- 
night!" 

"Stop!"  said  Louis.    "You  must— •" 

But  Stephen  Hargrave  had  taken  up  the  kettle  and  left 
the  room,  his  face  turned  from  his  young  master  and  the 
picture  lying  face  upwards  on  the  table. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 
"MINE  IN  SPITE  OF  ALL." 

Lore    is   enough;    though   the   world   be   a-waning, 
And  the  woods  have  no  voice  but  the  voice  of  complaining, 
Though  the  sky  be  too  dark  for  dim  eyes  to  discover, 
Tie  gold  cups  and  daisies  fair  blooming  thereunder, 
Though  the  hills  be  held  shadows,  and  the  sea  a  dark  wondef, 

— MOBBIS. 

The  next  morning  Louis  rose  early,  and  with  laudable 
industry  prepared  his  block  of  marble  for  the  statue  ©f 
the  child. 

During-  breakfast,  however,  an  idea  struck  him  which 
rendered  his  hour's  toil  useless. 

The  child  would  be  beautiful  in  itself,  but  he  thought 
he  could  give  it  an  extra  interest,  and  add  a  little  dra- 
matic effect. 

He  would  carve  the  child  lying  in  a  cradle.  He  drew 
a  sketch  and  threw  it  aside. 

He  tried  several  others,  and  grew  dissatisfied  with 
them  all  in  turn. 

At  last  a  happy  idea  struck  him. 

He  would  cut  out  two  figures — the  child  and  the 
mother!  He  drew  the  paper  toward  him  and  sketched 
out  the  figure  of  a  woman  holding  up  the  child  at  arm's 
length. 

"Capital !"  he  exclaimed.  "Now  let  me  put  a  look  of 
supplication  and  tenderness  in  the  woman's  face  and  an 
expression  of  pitiful  innocence  in  the  child's,  and  I  shall 
be  able  to  make  an  effective  group." 

So  pleased  was  he  with  his  idea  that  he  left  his  break- 
fast half  finished  and  hastened,  sketch  in  hand,  ft>  his 
studio. 

On  his  way  he  passed  his  grim  servant,  Stephen  Har- 
grave. 

"Well,  Stephen,"  he  said,  "how  is  the  scaldr 

"All  right,  thank  ye/'  said  Stephen. 

M 


120  Stelltfs  Fortune. 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Louis,  "and  I'm  glad  of  it.  You 
must  be  more  careful.  I  can't  spare  my  cook,  valet  and 
stud-groom  all  at  the  same  time." 

And  with  a  kindly  word  he  hurried  on. 

With  a  warm  enthusiasm  he  wheeled  a  block  of  marble 
on  to  the  dais  and  there  and  then  set  to  work. 

He  was  full  of  his  idea,  and  hotly  eager  to  see  it  em- 
bodied. The  minutes,  the  hours  flew  by,  and  in  all  prob- 
ability he  would  have  worked  on  until  too  tired  to  hold 
the  chisel  had  not  an  interruption  presented  itself  in  a 
most  delightful  form. 

Stephen  Hargrave,  with  a  knock  which  was  half  a 
push,  opened  the  door. 

"There's  Miss  Newton  riding  across  the  park,"  he  said, 
roughly. 

Louis  dropped  his  chisel  as  if  it  had  suddenly  grown 
red-hot  and  sprang  into  the  hall. 

He  caught  up  his  cap,  and  hurried  down  the  steps  in 
time  to  see  Stella  pull  up  at  the  little  wicket. 

Bareheaded,  and  with  the  light  o/'love  flashing  in  his 
eyes,  he  stood  beside  her.  her  hand  lightly  clasped  in  his, 
his  face  upturned  to  hers  with  a  passionate  welcome  writ- 
ten in  it. 

"Do  you  wish  to  kill  me  with  sudden  joy?"  he  mur- 
mured. "My  darling,  my  thoughts  have  been  with  you 
all  the  morning,  but  they  did  not  dare  to  picture  you 
near  me." 

Stella,  whose  face  had  flushed  with  a  delicious  blush, 
smiled  down  upon  him  with  a  sadness  which  he  was 
quick  to  note. 

"Ah  !r>  he  said,  "something  has  happened !  I  can  read 
your  face  already,  more  easily  than  I  can  read  a  book. 
You  will  dismount!  Nay,  you  must!" 

"No,  no,"  said  Stella,  but  with  an  audacity  which  he 
himself  wondered  at  afterward,  he  stretched  out  his  long, 
strong  arms  and  fairly  lifted  her  from  the  saddle. 

Stella  flushed  hotly. 

"Forgive  me !"  he  said.  "I  couldn't  help  it.  The  fear 
that  you  would  ride  away  again  was  unendurable,  so  I 
hastened  to  extinguish  it.  You  cannot  go  now." 

He  bent  over  her  as  he  spoke,  his  voice  dropped  to  a 


Stella's  Fortune.  12 1 

low,  musical,  caressing  whisper,  his  hand  seemed  to 
speak  love  as  it  held  hers. 

Stella  sighed  with  mingled  happiness  and  anxiety. 

"I  can  forgive  you,"  she  said,  "but  I  shall  never  for- 
give myself.  Yet  I  felt  impelled  to  come.  I — I  have 
something  to  tell  you." 

He  inclined  his  head  and  led  her  to  the  steps. 

"No,"  she  murmured,  hastily.  "I  will  not  go  in.  Let 
us  walk  here." 

She  turned  away  as  she  spoke,  and,  obedient  to  her 
slightest  wish,  he  turned  with  her. 

"Something  has  happened,"  he  said.  "But  do  not  let 
it  make  you  unhappy  darling!  See  I  ask  you  not  to  be 
unhappy,  even  before  you  tell  what  has  occurred.  Your 
love  has  made  me  feel  valiant.  I  am  strong  enough  to 
protect  you  from  all  the  cruelty  and  tyranny  of  the  world, 
with  your  love  to  nerve  me." 

Stella  looked  at  his  handsome  face,  with  its  slight 
flush  of  quiet  enthusiasm,  and  burst  into  tears— quiet, 
silent  ones,  which  are  worse,  ten  thousand  times,  than  the 
hysterical. 

"My  darling,  my  darling!"  he  pleaded,  drawing  her  to 
him  and  kissing  her.  "It  unmans  me  to  see  you  weep! 
You  who  should  be  all  smiles  and  joy  if  there  is  mirth 
for  angels.  Tell  me — tell  me,  Stella,  my  Stella,  what 
has  happened!" 

Stella  dried  her  eyes  and  smiled. 

"Am  I  not  a  weak,  foolish  girl  ?"  she  murmured,  gently 
trying  to  disengage  herself  from  his  clasp.  "But — but — 
I  am  so  alone — no,  I  don't  mean  that!"  she  added,  hur- 
riedly, as  he  looked  at  her  reproachfully.  "I  mean  so 
helpless  against  them  all.  Mr.  Felton " 

Louis  stopped  her  with  a  look  of  unutterable  pain. 

"Louis!"  she  said,  with  a  blush  and  an  humble  pres- 
sure of  his  hand.  "Louis!  it  seems  strange  to  call  you 
so — and  yet  " 

She  paused. 

"Go  on,  darling,"  he  said. 

"I  always  think  and — and  dream  of  you  as  Louis." 

He  thanked  her  for  that  confession  with  a  most  elo- 
quent look,  and  pressed  his  lips  to  her  hand. 


122  Stella's  Fortune. 

"I  ought  not  to  have  come  to  you,"  she  continued. 
"But  I  feel  that  you  ought  to  know,  that  it  would  be  un- 
just to  conceal  it  from  you — that — that — oh,  why  should 
I  try  to  deceive  you?  Louis,  I  could  not  stop  away, 
knowing  all  I  knew,  and  if  you  had  not  been  in  London 
yesterday  I  should  have  come  yesterday — bold,  forward 
girl  that  I  am." 

"And  how  did  you  know  it?"  he  asked. 

"I — I  saw  you  go,"  faltered  Stella.  "I  watched  you 
Don't — don't  please,"  for  he  had  kissed  the  tiny  warm 
hand  again  that  nestled  in  his  like  a  happy  bird.  "I  saw 
you  go,  and  I  determined  to  come  today.  So  I  am  here, 
at  all  risks !  And  they  are  not  to  be  despised,  for  if  they 
knew  it  they  would  kill  me,  perhaps.  Lock  me  up  safe 
and  sound  for  certain." 

"Then  I  should  have  to  turn  burglar,"  he  said.  "I 
could  make  my  way  through  the  Bastille  if  you  were  in- 
side, my  darling.  But  now  that  your  dear  face  has  cleared, 
tell  me  what  has  troubled  you." 

Stella  sighed. 

"You  remember  Sir  Richard  Wildfang?" 

"I  do,"  said  Louis,  significantly. 

"He— he,"  said  Stella,  looking  away,  "has  asked  me 
to  marry  him." 

Louis'  grasp  upon  her  hand  tightened  so  suddenly  that 
ft  gave  her  pain.  But  she  did  not  wince,  and  in  her  heart 
of  hearts  felt  a  strange,  mysterious  delight  in  it.  Pain 
from  him  was  better  than  pleasure  from  another. 

"So!"  he  said,  "he  has  shown  his  hand  so  soon.  My 
(darling,  I  expected  this,  but  not  so  soon.  He  asked  you 
to  marry  him?  What  did  you  say?" 

"I  said,"  replied  Stella,  then  hesitated  and  looked  at 
him,  shyly.  "What  ought  I  to  say?" 

That  you  would  rather  go  down  to  your  grave,"  said 
Louis,  solemnly. 

Stella  started,  and  looked  at  him  earnestly. 

"Do  you  think  he  is  so  very  bad  a  man,  then?**  she 
»aid,  in  a  whisper. 

"If  I  know  anything  of  the  human  face  and  the  story 
it  tells,  I  am  certain  that  Sir  Richard  Wildfang's  heart 
is  as  black  as  his  eyes.  But  remember  I  am  his  successful 


Stelltfs  Fortune.  123 

rival,  and  therefore  not  impartial.    Tell  me,  what  did 
you  say?" 

"I  said  no,"  replied  Stella,  gently. 

"My  own,  brave  girl,"  murmured  Louis.  "No,  plainly, 
straightforwardly,  unconditionally  ?" 

Stella  flushed  and  turned  pale,  and  half  started  with 
vague  alarm. 

"N — o,"  she  hesitated;  then,  in  a  low,  hurried  voice, 
she  added,  turning  to  him  and  touching  his  arm  with  a 
gentle,  imploring  appeal  for  him  to  make  all  allowance : 
"No,  I  did  not.  Do  not  look  so  grave !  Remember  hovr 
clever,  how  acute,  how  wily  he  is.  Louis,  he  is  a  man 
of  the  world,  versed  in  chicanery  and  all  the  arts  which 
conquer  the  weak ;  and  I — well,  I  am  only  a  weak  girl 
when  I  am  away  from  you.  He  talked  as  Mephistopheles 
might  have  talked ;  so  quietly,  so  saintly,  so  dangerously 
softly,  that  I  felt  like  a  bird  under  the  spell  of  a  snake. 
I  fought  hard  and  long,  but  I  gained  only  half  a  victory." 

Louis  turned  and  caught  her  arm. 

"What !"  he  said,  his  face  turning  pale  with  passionate 
alarm.  "You — you  did  not  tell  him  you  might  marry 
him?" 

"Yes,  on  a  condition  which  can  never  occur.  Louis, 
I  promised  to  marry  him — if — if — oh,  I  cannot  say  it" 

"Tell  me  quickly,  my  darling,  you  are  torturing  me," 
exclaimed  Louis,  hoarsely. 

"If  you  proved  false  or — or  dishonorable !"  faltered 
Stella. 

"My  own  brave,  clever  girl!"  he  exclaimed,  taking 
both  her  hands  and  breathing  a  profound  sigh  of  relief. 
"I  see — to  get  rid  of  him  you  promised  to  perform  an  im- 
possibility, for  it  is  impossible  for  you  to  marry  him,  if  an- 
other impossibility — for  it  is  an  impossibility  for  me  to 
prove  false — came  to  pass !  Clever,  beautiful  Stella.  Oh, 
foolish,  wicked  Sir  Richard,  why  did  he  not  get  you  to 
make  some  other  condition  ?  Say  when  the  night  changed 
to  day,  the  moon  became  green  cheese,  or  the  Thames 
caught  fire.  All  these  might  happen  before  that  one 
event  upon  which  his  hope  hinges  can  come  to  pass.  False 
tn  you,  Stella,  my  star,  my  angel !  Not  in  life  or  death." 

He  bent  over  her  hands  and  kissed  them    till    they 


124  Stellcts  Fortune. 

tingled,  Stella  looking  down  upon  him  with  a  happy  smfle 
which  shone  through  living  tears. 
"You  forgive  me  then?"  she  said. 

"Forgive  you?  I  know  not  how  to  express  my  awe 
at  your  genius.  I  knew  you  were  beautiful,  I  knew  you 
were  an  angel  at  heart  as  well  as  in  face,  but  I  did  not 
think  you  were  a  diplomat !  Poor  Sir  Richard !  Dislike 
him  as  I  do,  I  feel  inclined  to  pity  him!  For  it  is  a  dread- 
ful thing  to  have  lost  you,  and  if  his  hope  of  gaining  you 
rests  upon  my  infidelity,  then  he  has  sold  himself  to  de- 
spair !  Dry  your  eyes  my  darling.  Sir  Richard  has  out- 
witted himself,  and  love  has  conquered." 

"Yes,"  said  Stella,  with  a  happier  smile.  "But  how 
did  he  come  to — to  know  that  you — " 

"Loved  you?  Why,  all  the  world  might  see  it  if  it 
only  looked,"  he  responded.  "But  there  is  no  occasion  for 
alarm.  Sir  Richard  will  keep  his  own  counsel,  be  as- 
sured. He  will  not  disclose  our  secret  to  Mrs.  Newton 
for  a  very  good  reason.  Any  definite  action  on  her  part 
might  compel  us  to  action  on  ours." 

Stella  looked  alarmed. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked. 

"I  mean,"  he  replied,  "that  not  all  the  world  shall  part 
us,  and  that  you  are  mine  in  spite  of  everything." 

It  was  a  lover's  speech,  and  meant  nothing  sinister,  but 
Stella  was  reminded  of  it  afterward,  and  reading  it  in 
the  distorted  light  of  twisted  circumstances,  judged  him 
by  it. 

"But,"  he  resumed,  quickly,  anxious  to  change  the  sub- 
ject, which  he  saw  distressed  her,  "I  must  relate  my  ex- 
periences. You  do  not  ask  me  why  I  went  to  town, 
sweetest?'* 

"Because  you  pleased;  that  is  sufficient  reason  for  a 
man,"  replied  Stella  with  a  naive  smile. 

"No,  I  did  not  please,"  he  said.  "I  went  because  I 
was  compelled.  I  went  on  business." 

"Business?"  said  Stella,  with  all  a  mistress'  interest  in 
her  lover's  concerns. 

"Yes ;  you  must  know  that  I  am  a  party  in  a  celebrated 
lawsuit,  which  is  to  determine  nothing  less  than  a  large 
sum  of  money — oh,  an  enormous  sum — if  the  lawyers 


Stella's  Fortune.  125 

have  left  anything  of  the  original  amount.  In  fact,  to 
cut  a  long  story  short,  it  will  soon  be  decided  whether  I 
am  to  be  only  master  of  Heavithorne  in  name  only,  and  a 
poor  sculptor  in  reality,  or  the  owner  of  great  wealth, 
which  has  been  locked  up  in  the  jaws  of  that  great, 
greedy  monster  called  Chancery." 

Stella  pressed  his  hand. 

"I  do  hope  you  will  get  it." 

"Say  'we',"  he  said  tenderly.  "All  that  is  mine  is 
yours,  remember." 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "But,"  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  "it  does 
not  matter  much  if  they  let  you  remain  poor.  I  am  rich, 
so  they  tell  me,  and  all  mine  is  yours,  is  it  not?" 

Louis  frowned. 

"No,"  he  said. 

"I  wish  you  had  not  a  penny.  Your  wealth  is  the  only 
thing  about  you  with  which  I  am  not  in  love.  Could  you 
not  manage  to  lose  it,  dearest?'* 

"You  wicked  man !"  laughed  Stella,  happily.  "Do  you 
know,  I  despised  it  as  much  as  you  do  until — until  the 
day  before  yesterday.  Then,  when  I  remembered  that  it 
might  be  of  service  to  you,  I  almost  loved  it" 

Louis'  brow  contracted. 

"If,"  he  said,  then  stopped. 

"If  what?"  she  asked. 

"If  you  were  poor  I  should  feel  more  secure  of  you 
than  if  you  had  money.  Gold  grows  into  a  high  wall  of 
parting  sometimes;  but  there,  I  will  not  think  of  it!  I 
cannot  lose  you  and  live,  Stella ;  so  if  you  would  not  have 
my  murder  on  your  soul  do  not  let  anything  part  us.  But 
I  must  tell  you  what  I  saw  yesterday.  The  most  beauti- 
ful face  I  ever  dreamed  of!" 

"Oh!'  said  Stella,  turning  away  her  face,  "a  wo- 
man's ?" 

"No,"  he  laughed,  "a  child's." 

"Oh !"  said  Stella,  with  evident  relief,  and  turning  her 
smiling  face  toward  him. 

"Such  a  dear  little  fellow,  in  the  keeping  of  the 
strangest,  most  original  old  man  you  can  imagine.  I 
found  them  in  the  street,  and  followed  them  home,  with 
some  difficulty,  for  the  old  man  was  dreadfully  jealous 


136  Stellcfs  Fortune. 

of  his  treasures.  I  took  a  sketch  of  the  little  fellow,  and 
I  am  going  to  work  him  out  in  marble.  Will  you  come  in 
and  see  the  sketch? 

"No,"  said  Stella.    "Bring  it  to  me  here." 

He  drew  her  to  a  rustic  seat,  and  ran  up  for  the  sketch. 

No  sooner  had  he  gone  than  Stephen  Hargrave  came 
slowly  past  her. 

"Well,  Stephen,"  she  said  kindly,  "are  you  quite  well?'* 

The  man  touched  his  hat  sullenly. 

"I'm  quite  well,  Miss.  I'm  glad  to  see  you  well." 

Stella  smiled. 

"And  are  you  quite  happy?"  she  said,  thinking  that  U 
was  an  absurd  question,  for  could  one  living  in  the  same 
kouse  with  her  lover  be  otherwise  ? 

"Yes,  I'm  happy,"  he  said,  with  a  sigh.  "It  was  a 
change  for  the  better,  miss.  Sir  Richard  was  a  hard 
Blaster,  and  a  cruel-hearted  one." 

"You  should  not  speak  ill  of  him,"  said  Stella,  gently. 
"Did  he  not  do  you  a  great  kindness?" 

"Ay,"  said  Stephen,  with  a  grunt.  "All  the  same,  I'll 
•peak  my  mind ;  and,  what's  more,  I'd  have  you  have  a 
care  o'  him." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Stella,  turning  pale. 

She  distrusted  Sir  Richard  so  much  that  a  warning, 
even  when  coming  from  so  prejudiced  a  source,  gave  her 
an  uneasy  feeling. 

"What  I  say,"  retorted  Stephen.  "Mind  your  ways 
with  Sir  Richard,  or  he'll  work  ye  some  ill." 

Stella  would  have  asked  him  for  something  more  def- 
inite, and  would  have  finished  the  conversation  by  ad- 
ministering a  reproof;  but  Stephen,  having  said  his  say, 
walked  off  in  his  obstinate,  self-willed  way,  and  the 
next  moment  Louis  was  by  her  side  again  with  the  two 
sketches. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  "I  am  going  to  carve  up  a  group  of 
two— the  mother  holding  up  her  child.  Mother  and  child 
I  shall  call  it,  and  I  shall  keep  it." 

"Yes,"  said  Stella,  "keep  it  and  set  it  up  in  your  gar- 
den. Just  where  we  stand  would  make  a  good  place." 

'Here,  then,  it  shall  be,"  he  responded,  eagerly. 

Then  they  walked  side  by  side,  talking  in  a  low  under- 


Stella's  Fortune. 
tone,  until,  with  an  abrupt  suddenness,  Stephen  came  to 


"Sir  Richard's  coming  across  the  park  1" 

Stella  started. 

"Coming  here  ?    Let  me  go  at  once  !"  she  exclaimed. 

"No,"  said  Louis.    "Why  should  you  fear  him  so?" 

But  to  all  his  entreaties  she  remained  firm  in  her  in- 
tention of  flying. 

Stephen  brought  around  the  horse. 

Louis  lifted  her  into  the  saddle,  and  she  galloped  off, 
leaving  the  fence  over  which  she  had  trespassed,  and  just 
escaping  Sir  Richard  by  two  minutes. 

Sir  Richard,  though  he  bore  straight  for  the  little 
wicket,  did  not  pull  up,  but,  with  a  calm  smile  and  nod  to 
Louis,  who  raised  his  smoking-cap,  rode  in  the  direction 
of  Heavithorne. 

Louis,  turning  suddenly  around,  found  Stephen  at  his 
elbow,  like  him  watching  the  departing  baronet  and  with 
that  strange  commingling  of  expression  upon  his  face 
which  it  had  worn  in  Sir  Richard's  room  at  the  Box. 


CHAPTER  XVIIL 

KEPT  APART. 

Caution  IF  a  brave  man's  attribute. 
Were  there  no  fools  the  world  would  soon 
Be  rid  of  all  its  knaves,  for  they 
Musi  prey  on  one  another. 

That  same  evening  Stephen  walked  over  in  the  dark- 
ness to  the  Box,  and  Sir  Richard  Wildfang  was  in  pos- 
session of  a  full  report  of  the  meeting  and  conversation 
of  the  lovers. 

Stephen,  as  before,  was  warned  to  be  careful  and  dis- 
missed \vith  the  injunction  to  be  all  eyes  and  ears. 

The  next  day  Sir  Richard  rode  over  to  the  Vale,  said 
nothing  of  the  intimacy  between  Stella  and  Louis  Felton, 
but  simply  professed  his  willingness  to  writ  until  Miss 
Newton's  feelings  warmed  toward  him,  and,  with  a  cor- 
dial pressure  of  the  hand,  added  to  the  anxious  and 
worldly  mamma: 

"Time,  my  dear  madam,  works  wonders.  Your  daugh- 
ter has  not  had  time  enough  yet  to  understand  the  worth 
of  such  love  as  mine.  I  am  quite  willing  to  wait  until 
she  learns  to  look  upon  my  suit  with  favor?" 

Then  he  pressed  her  hand  again  and  departed,  saying, 
as  he  left  the  room: 

"I  am  going  up  to  town  to-morrow,  and  I  may  be  com- 
pelled to  remain  some  few  days.  When  I  come  back  I 
hope  to  find  fortune  more  favorable  toward  me  P 

Mrs.  Newton  hoped  so  too  with  all  her  heart,  and  Stella 
coming  in  a  few  minutes  after  had  to  endure  another 
panegyric  on  Sir  Richard. 

She  sat  silent,  however,  and  endured  it  with  a  good 
grace.  She  felt,  now  that  she  had  Louis*  love 
to  strengthen  her,  able  to  endure  anything. 

So  Sir  Richard  went  to  town  and  was  once  more  shut 
up  in  his  luxurious  private  counting-house,  and  Mr.  Dew- 
lap once  more  came  to  make  his  report 

iw 


Stelltfs  Fortune.  129 

Alas !  it  was  not  a  brighter  one  than  that  which  had  so 
affected  Sir  Richard  before  Christmas. 

Luck,  which  had  so  long  stood  in  Sir  Richard  Wild- 
fang's  favor,  had  taken  a  turn,  and  now  presented  her 
scornful,  immovable  back. 

Mr.  Dewlap  sat  and  poured  out  his  tale  with  sorrowful, 
broken  sentences. 

Two  of  the  large  houses  upon  which  Sir  Richard 
relied  were  tottering,  and  must  inevitably  fall  within  a 
month. 

Stocks  to  which  he  had  clung  with  ill-fated  tenacity 
had  depreciated  at  the  moment  when  they  had  to  be  sold 
to  raise  the  money. 

One  by  one  the  supports  of  his  commercial  existence 
were  being  withdrawn  from  under  him;  and  Mr.  Dew- 
lap wound  up  his  dolorous  statement  by  declaring  that  if 
something  in  the  shape  of  a  miracle  did  not  occur  in  their 
favor  ruin  would  once  for  all  level  the  great  commercial 
house  of  Wildfang  &  Co.  to  the  ground. 

Sir  Richard  dismissed  his  confidential  manager  and  set 
his  teeth  firm. 

"No  time  to  lose,"  he  muttered.  "The  girl's  money 
alone  can  save  me.  It  is  a  question  even  if  that  can!" 

Then  he  took  a  piece  of  paper  and  worked  out  a  com- 
plicated calculation,  and,  staring  at  the  result,  arose  from 
his  chair  pale  with  determination. 

"It  must  be  done !"  he  muttered,  "all  must  go  but  that. 
What  can  I  do  with  it?  Where  shall  I  put  it?" 

He  walked  up  and  down  for  a  few  minutes,  then 
smiled. 

"I  have  it!  No  place  could  be  safer  or  less  open  to 
suspicion." 

Then  he  put  on  his  hat  and  walked  down  to  a  club  of 
which  he  and  Lord  Marmion  were  members. 

He  found  the  simple-hearted  young  nobleman  in  the 
smoking-room. 

"My  dear  Marmion,  how  do  you  do?**  he  said,  with  his 
pleasantest  smile.  "I  thought  you  were  down  at  Dove- 
well." 

"No/'  said  Lord  Marmion,  wringing  his  hand.  "No, 
I  can't  stand  the  country  long.  I  must  have  my  dub  and 


130  Stella's  Fortune. 

the  town  amusements.  But  you  have  been  down  vege- 
tating at  Heavithorne,  haven't  you  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Sir  Richard.  "I  have  taken  a  shooting-box 
near  there,  and  very  happy  I  shall  be  to  see  you.  There 
are  some  pheasants  still  to  be  had." 

"I'll  come  and  shoot  'em,"  said  his  lordship.  "I  am 
very  glad  to  see  you  tonight,"  he  resumed,  as  Sir  Rich- 
ard lit  a  cigar  and  threw  himself  down  upon  the  settee. 
"You  remember  my  mentioning  that  money  of  Miss 
Newton's  ?" 

Sir  Richard  nodded  with  a  careless  air. 

"Well,  I  have  been  looking  into  the  matter,  and  I 
should  like  you  to  take  it  as  soon  as  you  can.  When  will 
you  have  it?" 

"Tomorrow,  if  you  like,"  said  Sir  Richard.  "How 
much  is  it?" 

"Forty  thousand  pounds  odd,"  said  his  lordship.  "But 
you  will  have  to  invest  it,  and  it  will  give  you  a  great  deal 
of  trouble." 

"No,"  said  Sir  Richard,  "I'll  tell  you  what  I  will  do  if 
you  like.  I  will  take  it  on  my  own  responsibility,  and  give 
you  five  per  cent,  on  it.  Mind,  I  do  not  want  it  partic- 
ularly, but  we  can  always  find  a  use  for  money." 

"Of  course,"  said  Lord  Marmion.  "What  a  wonderful 
head  you  must  have!  I  really  envy  you  business  men 
your  brains.  By  the  way,  perhaps  you  can  do  the  same 
with  some  cash  of  mine  ?  I  have  five  or  ten  thousand  I 
don't  know  what  to  do  with." 

Sir  Richard's  heart  beat  fast. 

Five  or  ten  thousand  would  help  feather  his  nest  beau- 
tifully, and  the  silly  young  lord  wouldn't  miss  it,  with  his 
thirty  thousand  a  year. 

"Yes,  I  will  take  it,"  he  said,  "if  you  can  let  me  have 
it  at  once." 

"I'll  send  you  a  check  for  the  two,"  said  Lord  Marmioa. 

Sir  Richard  nodded,  sipped  his  claret,  and  changed  the 
conversation. 

He  stayed  late  that  night,  and  when  he  unlocked  the 
door  of  his  dressing-room  his  face  was  flushed  and  his 
eyes  sparkled. 

Sir  Richard  was  in  that  state  of  excitement  which  all 


Stelltfs  Fortune.  131 

men,  be  they  bold  as  they  may,  feel  on  the  verge  of  a 
great  crime. 

For  him  there  was  no  bed  that  night. 

The  morning  saw  him  still  bending  over  his  desk,  mak- 
ing calculations  from  his  ledgers  and  daybooks. 

Once  only  he  had  given  way  to  the  fatigue  which  had 
settled  on  him,  and  then  he  woke  from  an  uneasy  slum- 
ber, starting  like  a  man  under  the  influence  of  nightmare, 
and  muttering  "Lucy !  Lucy !" 

While  Sir  Richard  was  at  work,  darkly,  mysteriously, 
in  London,  Louis  was  laboring  little  less  arduously  at 
Heavithorne. 

The  statue  was  gaining  form  and  grace  each  day,  and 
he  worked  with  a  restless  impatience,  which  sprang  from 
one  other  cause  besides  his  artistic  enthusiasm. 

He  had  seen  nothing  of  Stella  since  the  day  Sir  Rich- 
ard had  frightened  her  away. 

Several  times  he  had  taken  a  walk  through  the  park  in 
the  hope  of  seeing  her,  and  once,  driven  to  rashness  by 
his  lover-like  impatience,  he  had  called  at  the  Vale. 

But  Miss  Newton  was  denied  to  him,  and  there  was 
nothing  for  it  but  to  return  home  and  try  to  lose  himself 
and  his  longing  in  his  work. 

Four  days  passed,  and  still  no  Stella! 

On  the  fourth  day  he  called  at  the  Vale  again,  and  was 
again  refused. 

Then  he  grew  alarmed,  and  sent  Stephen  to  watch  the 
house,  on  the  chances  of  delivering  a  message  to  Stella  if 
he  should  see  her,  or  at  least  of  hearing  that  all  was  well. 

Stephen  watched  until  the  sixth  day,  and  saw  neither 
Stella  nor  Mrs.  Newton,  and  Louis  was  almost  in  despair. 

On  the  seventh  day  Louis,  while  climbing  the  hill  from 
the  Vale,  saw  the  Vale  carriage  coming  down  toward  him. 

His  heart  beat  fast,  and  he  stood  still. 

But  the  carriage  rolled  on,  and  in  response  to  his  raised 
hat  there  was  only  a  frosty  little  bow  from  Mrs.  Newton, 
who  did  not  choose  to  stop  for  Mr.  Felton,  the  sculptor. 

From  Stella  he  got  a  smile  that  was  full  of  a  tender 
meaning,  and  which  seemed  to  say: 

"Be  patient;  I  am  true!" 

With  this  he  was  obliged  to  be  satisfied,  and  returned 


132  Stella's  Fortune. 

to  his  studio,  determined  to  work  harder  than  ever,  and 
wait  with  greater  trust. 

No  sooner  had  he  reached  home  than  Stephen  came  to 
him  and  held  out  a  tiny  piece  of  folded  paper. 

"What  is  that?"  said  Louis,  with  weary  irritation. 

"A  note/'  said  Stephen,  sullenly. 

"Where  from?"  asked  Louis. 

"From  Miss  Newton,"  said  Stephen. 

Louis  snatched  it  from  him. 

"Where — how  did  you  come  by  it?"  he  asked,  his 
cheeks  flushed  with  delight. 

"I  was  standing  in  the  road  looking  at  the  carriage, 
and  saw  the  young  lady  drop  it  out.  She  looked  as  if 
she  meant  me  to  pick  it  up,  and  I  did." 

"Good,  clever  Stephen!"  said  Louis,  and  directly  the 
man  had  gone  he  pressed  the  little  scrap  of  paper  to  his 
lips. 

Then  he  opened  it. 

The  note  was  a  very  short  one,  but  it  confirmed  his 
fears.  It  ran  thus: 

"DteAR  MR.  FELTON" — (This  was  marked  out,  and 
"Louis"  put  in  its  place)  :  "I  know  you  are  anxious  about 
me,  because  I  have  seen  you  in  the  park  and  Stephen 
watching  the  house.  Do  not  be  alarmed  or  uneasy,  al- 
though, as  I  fear,  I  shall  not  be  able  to  see  you.  Mamma 
has  had  her  suspicions  aroused,  and  keeps  me  almost  a 
prisoner.  Do  not  mind  for  me;  I  am  happy,  though  I 
cannot  see  or  hear  you,  for  I  remember  always  that  you 
have  said  you  love  me.  If  you  can  get  a  note  conveyed 

to  me,  dear  Louis but  my  love  is  teaching  me  to  be 

bold  and  forward.    Will  you  forgive  me,  and  remember 
that  the  love  is  for  you? 

"Yours  ever,  STELLA/' 

Never  was  a  note  more  incoherent— or  more  precious ! 
Louis  kissed  it  a  hundred  times,  then  stuck  it  up  on  his 
easel  and  stared  at  it  a  dozen  minutes  together,  and  at 
last  hid  it  carefully  away  within  his  bosom. 

Then  he  wrote  a  long  letter  full  of  his  passionate  love 
and  longing,  and  sealing  it  called  Stephen. 

"Stephen,"  he  said,  "I  can  trust  you.  Yours  is  not 
the  face  of  a  traitor.  You  know  whom  I  want  this  note 


Stella's  Fortune.  §33 

to  reach.  You  let  her  have  it  from  your  own  hands. 
Mind!  no  third  person!  Watch  until  you  see  her  at  a 
window,  then  place  the  note  in  some  part  of  the  garden. 
She  will  understand!" 

Stephen  took  the  letter,  eyed  Louis  in  silence,  and 
without  speaking  a  word  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

DARK  WORK. 

Comes  this  from   my  love? 
Then  should  the  lines  be  writ 
With  liquid  gold,  for  to  my  heart 
They  are  more  precious. 

As  soon  as  dinner  had  been  removed  Stephen  Hargrave, 
as  was  his  custom,  disappeared. 

Louis  did  not  want  him,  and  never  asked  for  hjm,  in- 
deed had  he  done  so  he  would  not  have  been  angry  at  his 
absence,  for  he  had  taken  a  liking  to  the  grim,  silent  fel- 
low and  was  too  easy  natured  to  resent  anything  he  did 
in  the  way  of  neglect  or  roughness  of  manner. 

So  Stephen  Hargrave  crept  along  through  the  dark- 
ness, his  head  bent  upon  his  breast,  his  hands  thrust  into 
his  pockets  and  his  face  grim  and  set,  revealing  nothing 
of  the  feeling  which  worked  like  hot  lava  under  the  vol- 
canic crater  in  his  bosom. 

Arrived  at  the  Box  he  gave  the  usual  signal,  and  Sir 
Richard,  who  had  returned  two  days  previously,  softly 
opened  the  door  for  him. 

"Well,"  he  said,  as  the  silent  man  passed  in  and  stood 
with  his  rough  cap  in  his  hand.  "You  have  something  to 
tell  me?" 

Stephen  nodded. 

"News,"  he  said. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Sir  Richard,  pointing  to  a  chair. 

Stephen  sat  down  and  fixed  his  dark,  brooding  eyes  on 
the  fire. 

Sir  Richard  looked  at  him  with  his  keen,  hawk-like  eyes 
as  if  he  would  read  his  soul. 

"You  have  brought  something?"  he  said. 

The  man  started  and  looked  up  half  fearfully. 

"How  do  you  know  that?"  he  growled,  beneath  his 
breath.  "I  have." 

"A  letter?"  said  Sir  Richard. 

Stephen  nodded. 

m 


Stella's  Fortune.  135 

"Give  it  me,"  said  Sir  Richard,  holding  out  his  hand. 

Stephen  gave  him  the  letter,  and  with  a  calm  smile  he 
took  it  from  the  envelope  and  read  it. 

"Good,  very  good.  Poetry  in  its  way !"  he  murmured, 
with  a  sneer.  "But  it  is  an  answer.  Where  is  her  let- 
ter?' 

"Could  I  snatch  that  from  his  breast,  master?"  said 
Stephen.  "Not  unless  I  murdered  him  first,  and  you 
haven't  ordered  me  to  do  that  yet." 

"No,  but  if  I  did  you  would  do  it?"  said  Sir  Richard, 
facing  him  with  a  calm,  stern  regard. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  said  Stephen,  with  a  long  sigh  that 
was  almost  a  smile. 

"Be  thankful  then  that  I  do  not  bid  you  walk  to  the 
gallows  1"  said  Sir  Richard.  "What  was  her  letter?  you 
read  it?" 

And  in  monotonous  tones  he  repeated  the  contents  of 
Stella's  note. 

"Good,"  said  Sir  Richard  again.  "Now  there  is  work 
for  you  to  do.  First  I  want  you  to  take  a  letter  from 
him,  but  not  this.  This  goes  where  all  such  trash  should 
go,"  and  with  a  smile  he  flung  it  on  the  fire. 

Then  he  arose  and  filled  a  liqueur  glass  ^with  brandy 
and  handed  it  to  his  slave. 

"Drink  it,"  he  said. 

Stephen  took  the  glass  and  eyed  Sir  Richard  over  it 
with  a  look  that  said  plainly,  "Now  comes  the  dark  work 
for  which  you  saved  and  reserved  me!" 

Sir  Richard  returned  to  his  desk,  and  taking  a  sheet 
of  paper  wrote  a  short  note,  pausing  twice  or  thrice,  and 
at  last  making  a  satisfactory  copy,  threw  the  drafts  on 
the  fire,  placed  the  copy  in  an  envelope  and  directed  it  to 
"Miss  Newton,  The  Vale." 

"Here  is  the  note,"  he  said,  at  last.  "Deliver  it  to  her 
in  the  place  of  the  one  you  received  from  Louis  Felton. 
When  you  have  delivered  it  come  and  tell  me.  That  is 
all  for  the  present.  Afterward  there  will  be  some  work 
for  you  to  do.  I  depend  upon  your  doing  it;  am  I  de- 
ceived ?" 

"I'll  do  it/*  said  Stephen,  gruffly.  "You  are  my  mas- 
ter." 


136  Stella? s  Fortune. 

"I  am  glad  to  find  you  so  grateful,"  said  Sir  Richard. 

"But  for  me — as  no  doubt  you  remember — you  would  be 
in  prison  now,  your  character  gone,  your  self-respect  for- 
ever— branded  as  a  vagabond  and  a  jail-bird !" 

The  man's  face  paled,  his  lips  quivered,  and  he  struck 
his  cap  with  his  fist 

"You're  right,"  he  said ;  "you  saved  me ;  I  can't  forget 
it!" 

Then  Sir  Richard,  having  made  the  desired  impression, 
opened  the  door  and  motioned  to  him  to  depart. 

The  next  morning  Stella  saw  from  the  dressing-room, 
the  windows  of  which  looked  out  at  the  side  of  the  house 
on  to  a  small  shrubbery,  a  man  sulking  in  the  shadow  of 
the  laurels.  She  had  seen  him  once  or  twice  before  that 
week,  and  she  recognized  him  immediately.  Her  heart 
beat  fast  and  the  color  crimsoned  her  beautiful  face. 

"He  has  brought  a  letter  for  me/"  she  murmured.  "I 
know  it,  I  know  it !  Oh,  my  love,  my  love,  every  minute 
will  seem  an  hour  until  it  lies  upon  my  heart.  But  how 
am  I  to  get  it?" 

As  if  in  answer  to  her  mental  question,  Stephen  made 
a  gesture  as  if  demanding  attention. 

She  made  a  movement  with  her  hand  to  signify  that 
she  saw  him,  and  then,  after  looking  carefully  over  the 
house  and  around  about  him,  Stephen  tilted  up  the  vase 
which  stood  on  a  pedestal  and  placing  the  letter  under  it 
dropped  it  into  its  place  again ! 

"Clever,  faithful  Stephen  1"  she  murmured. 

And  hurriedly  dressing  herself  she  found  an  oppor- 
tunity of  getting  on  to  the  lawn. 

With  greatest  care  she  strolled  into  the  shrubbery  and 
secured  her  precious  letter. 

Oh,  Louis,  if  you  had  seen  mat  vile  forgery,  and  you 
could  but  know  it  as  such,  what  would  you  not  have  en- 
dured ? 

At  last  she  broke  the  seal,  and  with  blushing  cheeks 
and  beating  heart  devoured  her  first  love  letter. 

It  ran  thus: 

"My  OWN  :  No  words  could  tell  you  what  I  have  suf- 
fered during  these  last  days.  I  have  scarcely  slept  or 
eaten.  Your  sweet  face  haunts  me  day  and  night  I 


Stellas  Fortune.  137 

know  now  by  these  few  days  without  sight  of  you  what 
I  should  suffer  if  you  were  lost  to  me  forever.  Stella, 
my  darling,  you  were  right  in  your  estimate  of  Sir  Rich- 
ard's character.  He  is  base,  vile,  teacherous.  Some- 
thing has  occurred  to  convince  me  that  my  happiness  is 
in  danger,  and  that  unless  steps  are  taken  to  frustrate  the 
plans  I  shall  be  ruined  and  our  two  hearts  torn  asunder. 
Stella,  you  alone  can  frustrate  the  vile  scheme ;  you  alone 
can  save  me !  Will  you  do  it  ?  It  will  need  a  sacrifice — 
many  perhaps.  I  cannot  tell  you  more  now  or  by  these 
means;  but  if  you  love  me,  meet  me  at  nine  o'clock  to- 
morrow night,  here  in  the  garden,  at  the  wicket  gate.  As 
we  are  watched  closely  it  would  be  better  should  you  see 
me  before  to  take  no  notice.  To-morrow  I  look  for  you 
at  nine  o'clock.  I  know  how  great  a  thing  I  am  asking 
of  you,  but  I  know  that  your  love  will  count  it  little  for 
your  own  Louis." 


CHAPTER  XX. 

MASTER   AND   SLAVE. 

Begone,  dull  care,  nor  fright  my  soul 

With   sickly    apprehension. 
Begone,   or  in  the   flowing  bowl 

We'll  drown  thee  and  dissension. 

Stephen  Hargrave  waited  in  ambush  until  he  had  as- 
certained that  Stella  had  put  herself  in  possession  of  the 
letter,  then  with  downcast  face  and  stolid  mien,  went 
about  his  duties  of  the  day  as  silently  and  grimly  as  ever. 

Once  or  twice  he  glanced  with  a  peculiar  expression  at 
his  young  master,  who  worked  at  his  statue  all  day  with 
enthusiastic  ardor,  as  if  his  life  depended  upon  his  get- 
ting it  done  by  a  certain  time,  but  whenever  Louis  spoke 
to  him  he  answered  as  curtly  as  usual,  and  Sir  Richard's 
secret  was  safe. 

In  the  evening  Louis  left  his  studio  and  sank  into  his 
easy-chair  in  the  dining-room,  quite  tired  out;  but  there 
was  satisfaction  shining  through  all  the  weariness  upon 
his  face.  "Well,  Stephen,"  he  said,  as  the  man  put  the 
dinner  on,  "is  there  any  news  ?" 

There  was  no  occasion  to  specify  the  description  re- 
quired ;  Stephen  knew  as  well  as  his  master. 

"No,"  he  answered,  gruffly. 

Louis  sighed. 

"Have  you  not  seen  her?" 

"No." 

"Have  you  watched?" 

"I  have." 

"Well,"  said  Louis,  with  another  wistful  sigh,  "I  knew 
you  would  watch  well  for  me,  Stephen,  and  that  I  can 
trust  you !  I  would  give  all  the  world  for  a  word  from 
her  tonight.  You  are  sure  the  carriage  has  not  left  the 
park?" 

"Yes,  I  am,"  said  Stephen,  moodily.    "Hadn't  you  bet- 

138 


Stella's  Fortune.  139 

ter  eat  your  dinner?    You've  been  working  like  a  horse 
and  the  things  are  getting  cold." 

Louis  was  more  tired  and  disappointed  than  hungry, 
but  he  drew  up  to  the  table  and  toyed  with  the  plain  but 
well-cooked  viands. 

Then  he  took  up  his  letters — long  blue  ones,  from  the 
lawyers,  and  sighed  over  them,  and  at  last,  without  a 
word  told  Stephen  to  get  his  coat  and  hat. 

"I  can't  stop  in  the  house  tonight,"  he  murmured. 

',  "Something  seems  to  weigh  upon  my  spirits.    If  I  were 

{ inclined  to  believe  in  such  things  or  give  way  to  them,  I 

should  say  that  I  had  a  strong  presentiment  of  coming 

ill.    I  want  a  walk,  fresh  air,  and  above  all  to  see  your 

sweet  face,  my  beautiful  Stella.    Well,  if  I  cannot  see  thee 

the  next  best  thing  is  to  be  near  thee." 

Stephen  helped  him  on  with  his  coat  and  handed  him 
his  hat. 

"You're  going  out  ?"  he  said. 

"It  looks  like  it,  Stephen,"  said  Louis,  good-humoredly. 

"To  wander  about  the  park  and  catch  your  death  of 
cold?" 

"That's  as  may  be,"  retorted  Louis,  a  little  more  coldly. 
"But  you  need  not  stay  at  home  or  wait  up  for  me,  if  you 
want  to  go  out  or  to  bed." 

"I'll  go  out,  if  it's  all  the  same,"  said  Stephen. 

"Very  well,"  said  Louis,  and  buttoning  his  coat  around 
him  he  walked  briskly  through  the  hall  into  the  night,  his 
face  turned  toward  the  Vale,  as  most  assuredly  his  heart 
and  thoughts  were  also. 

Stephen  Hargrave  waited  until  Louis  had  had  time  to 

get  clear  of  the  immediate  neighborhood  of  the  Hut,  then 

wrapped  himself  up  with  something  approaching  a  dis- 

y  guise,  and  in  his  usual  roundabout,  careful  way,  reached 

.the  Box. 

I     He  gave  the  usual  signal,  but  there  came  no  response. 
Again  he  whistled,  and  without  eliciting  any  answer. 

Twice  or  thrice  more  the  suppressed  owl's  shriek  which 
he  had  been  ordered  to  imitate  left  his  lips,  then,  impatient 
to  reach  the  Hut  again  before  Louis,  he  stole  up  to  tfaf 
window  and  tapped  at  it 


I4O  Stellcts  Fortune. 

Against  the  blind  he  could  see  the  shadow  of  Sir  Rich- 
ard's head  thrown  in  a  bent  position,  as  if  he  were  asleep. 

Very  quietly  and  gently  he  tapped  the  window  with  his 
finger  nails,  but  the  shadow  did  not  move.  Then  at  last, 
fearful  of  the  delay  and  danger  it  engendered,  he  crept 
up  to  the  door,  and  quietly  opened  it  and  entered  the 
room. 

At  a  glance  he  saw  that  Sir  Richard  had  fallen  asleep 
over  his  desk,  and  for  a  few  moments  he  stood  with  the 
door  in  his  hand,  watching  him. 

Then  he  closed  the  door,  and  went  up  to  his  usual  chair, 
seated  himself,  and  fell  to  his  staring  at  the  fire  moodily, 
prepared  to  wait  until  his  master  should  please  to  wake. 

Suddenly  Sir  Richard  started  in  his  sleep  and  muttered 
some  incoherent  words. 

Stephen  paid  not  the  slightest  regard,  did  not  appear 
to  have  heard  them  even,  but,  with  a  startling  distinct- 
ness, Sir  Richard,  still  in  his  sleep,  exclaimed : 

"Lucy!  Lucy!  Give  me  the  boy!"  and  threw  out  one 
hand  with  an  expression  halting  midway  between  re- 
pulsion and  entreaty. 

Stephen  Hargrave  started  and  sprang  up  from  his 
chair,  his  face  working  horribly,  his  eyes  filled  with  a 
horrified  and  threatening  glare  upon  Sir  Richard's  face. 

The  noise  of  his  sudden  uprising  woke  the  sleeper. 

Sir  Richard  started,  clinched  his  two  hands,  and  rising, 
stared  around  him. 

So  they  stood,  the  two  men,  confronting  each  other, 
each  looking  as  if  he  had  been  dreaming  some  fearful 
dream  or  seeing  some  agitating  vision. 

Sir  Richard  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"You!  How  did  you  get  in?" 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  Stephen  Hargrave*s  face  re- 
sumed its  old  expression  of  dogged  subjection,  and  with 
a  dull  sigh  he  sank  into  the  chair  again. 

"Through  the  door/'  he  replied.  "I  whistled  and 
waited  until  I  dared  wait  no  longer,  then  stopped  at  the 
window.  You  didn't  hear  me,  you  were  asleep.  I  came 
in.  You  didn't  want  any  of  the  servants  to  find  me 
hanging  about,  did  you  ?" 

"Quite  right,"  said  Sir  Richard,  passing  his  hand  over 


Stellcts  Fortune.  141 

his  face,  which  was  still  rather  white  and  haggard. 
•'Quite  right  Well,  did  you  deliver  the  letter?" 

"Yes,"  said  Stephen,  "I  saw  her  take  it  with  her  own 
hand." 

"Good  again/*  said  Sir  Richard.  "Now,  listen,"  and 
in  clear,  distinct  tones,  which  seemed  to  fix  the  lesson 
upon  the  listener's  brain  as  a  chisel  cut  an  inscription  on 
steel,  Sir  Richard  revealed  his  plot  and  set  forth  the  work 
he  intended  his  slave  to  perform. 

Stephen  Hargrave  listened  attentively  until  Sir  Rich- 
ard had  finished,  then  he  took  his  cap  and  rose. 

"Is  that  all?" 

"That  is  all,"  said  Sir  Richard,  with  a  cold  smile.  "Not 
a  great  deal,  nor  a  very  difficult  undertaking,  but  it  must 
be  done  well.  No  over-acting  the  part  or  struggling  at 
the  last  moment.  You  understand  me?" 

"I  do,"  said  the  man,  "and  I'll  do  it.  Afterward,  after 
this  job  is  done — I  can  go  my  way,  I  suppose.  You  will 
have  no  further  need  of  me?" 

"That's  as  may  be,"  said  Sir  Richard,  coldly.  "If  there 
is  more  to  be  done  you  will  have  to  do  it." 

Then  he  filled  the  glass  of  brandy  as  usual.  Stephen 
drank  it,  and,  with  a  grim  "good-night"  took  his  depart- 
ure. 

Louis  meanwhile  had  reached  the  park,  and,  with  the 
recklessness  of  youth,  scaled  the  wood  empalings  and 
trespassed  upon  the  grounds  of  the  Vale. 

It  was  a  beautiful  night,  the  moon  nearly  at  the  full, 
and  he  could  see  the  outlines  of  the  house  and  every  win- 
dow and  door  in  it  as  clearly  as  if  the  sun  had  shone 
upon  it. 

There  was  a  light  in  the  drawing-room,  and  toward 
this  Louis  was  drawn,  as  a  moth  is  fascinated  by  a  candle. 

He  fancied  that  he  could  distinguish  his  darling's 
shadow  upon  the  blinds,  and  he  watched  motionless  in  the 
cold,  waiting  to  catch  the  sound  of  her  voice. 

At  last  his  patience  was  rewarded — more  fully  and 
sweetly  than  he  could  have  expected. 

The  shadow  disappeared  from  the  window,  and  a  min- 
ute or  so  afterward  he  heard  some  chords  struck  upon  the 
piano. 


142  Stella's  Fortune. 

He  drew  near  the  window,  his  heart  beating  wildly,  his 
cheek  flushed,  with  expectant  delight,  which  nearly  burst 
forth  in  passionate  words  of  love,  as  Stella's  sweet,  clear 
voice  commenced  singing. 

It  was  a  mournful,  sadly  bewitching  air,  and  the  words 
— every  one  of  which  Louis  could  hear — harmonizing  in 
their  wistful  lamentation  with  the  music. 

Low  sets  the  sun  across  the  sands, 

The  heavy  clouds  are  red  with  haze, 
The  sunlight  reddens  both  your  hands 

And  casts  a  glow  upon  your  face. 

In  coming  years  this  night,  my  love, 

Will  stand  out  clearly  from  the  past. 
Its  memory,  bitter  sweet,   shall   prove 

Our  love  found  voice  to   speak  at  last. 

A  year  ago  we  met — no  more! 

The  twelve   months  seem  so  long,  so  short! 
"What  worth  was  life  to  me  before 

The  glamor  of  your  eyes  I  caught? 

And  now!  ah,  well,  the  tide  comes  in; 

To-morrow  again  the  tide  goes  out; 
And  love,   like  pleasure,  pain  and  sin, 

Must  take  its  turn  and  turn  about. 

No,  keep  the  flowers,  one  and  all! 

Quch   helps  to  memory   need   I   not. 
Love's  pride  must  surely  have  its  fall, 

And  futile  hoping  be  forgot. 

Stella's  voice  quivered  on  the  last  line  and  prolonged 
it  until  the  full  sense  of  it  set  Louis'  heart  aching. 

"A  mournful  song,"  he  murmured.  "But,  thank 
Heaven,  your  sadness  shall  be  confined  to  love  ditties  if 
fate  will  permit  me  to  watch  over  your  future.  'Futile 
hoping  be  forgot !'  Heaven  forbid  that  your  hoping,  my 
darling,  should  be  futile!  Nay,  the  course  of  true  love 
may  not  run  smoothly,  but  so  that  it  finds  its  way  to  the 
river  of  happiness  at  last,  who  of  us  dare  complain  of  the 
rocks  and  weeds  in  our  way?  Oh,  my  darling,  what 
would  I  give  to  stand  beside  you  now  and  dispel  the 
silence  of  your  sadness  with  some  more  cheerful  strain  "* 
Strange — there  must  be  sympathy  between  us — I,  with 


Stella's  Fortune.  143 

my  presentiment  of  coming  ill  heavy  upon  my  soul,  and 
Stella  pouring  out  her  heart's  sadness  in  a  mournful  song. 
Bah!  I  do  not  deserve  my  happiness  by  hunting  up 
trouble  in  this  way ;  let  me  wait  until  it  comes,  and  when 
it  does  let  me  meet  it  like  a  man  and  overcome  it." 

Then,  with  a  fervent  good-night,  which  Stella,  alas! 
could  not  hear,  he  went  away  moodily,  scaled  the  park 
railings  and  returned  to  the  Hut. 

It  was  fearfully  cold,  the  lights — save  those  in  his  own 
room — 'Were  extinguished,  the  whole  place  was  intensely 
silent. 

He  went  to  bed,  but  not  to  sleep,  the  presentiment  took 
larger  form  in  the  darkness  and  haunted  him  like  a 
ghost,  and  whenever  he  woke,  with  a  start,  some  voice 
from  within  him — frvhich  seemed  rather  to  come  out  of 
the  darkness  around  him — wailed  in  harmony  with  the 
wind: 

"Love's  pride  must  surely  have  its  fall, 
And  futile  hoping  be  forgot." 

The  first  love  letter  generally  brings  sweet  delight 
Stella's  first  love  letter,  j<  ;  ''i!!y  as  she  had  welcomed  it, 
brought  her  an  indescribable  pain.  There  was  a  void  in 
her  heart  before.  She  had  received  it,  and  it  made  that 
void  seem  greater,  instead  of  filling  it  as  it  should  have 
done.  There  was  something  almost  unsatisfying;  al- 
though its  professions  of  devotion  were  passionate  and 
frequent  enough,  they  seemed  hollow  and  artificial.  Louis 
did  not  talk  so,  it  was  utterly  unlike  him,  and  it  fretted 
her  to  find  his  first  letter  so  unlike  what  she  expected  it 
would  be.  Then  again  it  spoke  of  danger,  of  a  palpable 
dread  of  some  scheme  of  Sir  Richard's  and  contained  that 
request  which  would  entail  danger  to  her  fair  fame  and 
name  if  she  granted  it.  Meet  him  at  night  in  the  dark ! 

Her  cheek  paled  and  her  heart  sank  at  the  idea. 

In  the  first  place,  how  could  she  leave  the  house  un- 
detected ?  In  the  next  place,  some  of  the  servants  or  vil- 
lagers might  see  her  and  recognize  her  well-known  figure 
disguise  and  muffle  as  she  might,  while  she  was  on  her 
way;  and,  lastly,  how  could  she  hope  to  re-enter  thf 
house  unnoticed 


144  Stella's  Fortitne. 

But  love  laughs  at  locksmiths,  and  Stella,  once  more 
kissing  the  letter,  hid  it  in  her  bosom  and  determined  to 
obey  her  lover's  wish,  cost  her  what  it  might.  And  from 
the  moment  she  had  so  determined  a  presentiment,  near 
akin  to  that  which  had  fallen  upon  Louis,  settled  upon 
her,  and  sleeping  or  waking  she  dreamed  of  nothing 
but  ill. 

Under  the  influence  of  that  threatening  mood  she  had 
sung  the  song  Louis  had  heard  and  sighed  at ;  under  the 
same  heaviness  she  waited  feverishly  for  the  hour  which 
the  letter  had  appointed. 

It  came,  and  chance,  which  brings  about  so  much  good 
and  evil,  upon  whose  touch  weak  minds  tremble,  stood 
her  friend— or  enemy. 

Mrs.  Newton,  complaining  of  bad  headache,  which  she 
had  brought  on  by  worrying  herself  over  the  steward's 
books  in  a  fit  of  parsimony,  retired  to  her  room,  thinking 
Stella  was  safe  f$r  the  night,  and  determined  that  she 
would  take  her  to  town  on  the  morrow. 

Stella  stole  up  to  her  room  and  slipped  into  furs. 
Very  beautiful  was  the  picture  which  the  mirror  presented 
to  her  gaze  when  she  stood  before  it,  till  with  inflexible 
prudence  she  threw  a  large  waterproof  over  the  whole, 
drew  the  hood  over  her  head  and — still  pretty,  despite  the 
inartistic  wrap — quietly  stole  downstairs  again,  taking  the 
key  in  her  pocket.  She  was  compelled  to  wait  behind  a 
statue  of  a  sleeping  satyr  upon  the  stairs  until  a  footman, 
who  was  removing  the  last  service  of  the  dinner  from  the 
hall,  had  finished  his  task,  and  even  then  narrowly  es- 
caping detection,  for  the  man  came  back  for  a  forgotten 
epergne  just  as  the  door  closed  after  her. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE  STRUGGLE  AND  THE  RESCUE. 

4 

The    dove's    nature   was    made 

To  satisfy  the  fowler's  net;  let  doves  beware 

When  they  see  nets,  and  go  not  there. 

As  the  letter  had  prophesied,  it  was  a  magnificent  night. 
The  moonlight  lit  up  every  tree  and  hedge  of  the  snow- 
covered  landscape. 

Stella  could  have  found  her  way  from  the  Vale  to  the 
Hut  in  the  dark,  but  tonight  the  scene  was  as  light  as 
day,  almost  too  light  for  her  safety,  and  she  kept  under 
the  shadow  of  the  hedges  and  the  old  wall,  while  she  was 
on  the  Vale  road,  and  preferred  walking  deep  in  the  snow 
when  she  entered  the  park  to  be  under  the  shelter  of  the 
tree  rather  than  tread  the  hard,  clean,  frozen  path  in  the 
full  light  of  the  calm,  peaceful  moon. 

And  now,  as  she  neared  the  place  of  tryst,  her  heart 
beat  fast  and  excitedly.  Soon,  in  a  few  minutes,  she 
would  be  with  Louis ;  five  minutes  more  and  she  would 
be  nestling  against  his  strong,  blithe  heart  as  the  robins 
press  against  the  strong,  sturdy  oaks  in  the  park. 

Then,  at  the  bend  of  the  path,  she  caught  the  first  sight 
of  the  red  curtains  of  the  Hut,  and  her  heart  throbbed 
more  quickly,  and  from  her  half-parted,  smiling  lips  came 
the  low  tender  words  of  love : 

"My  Louis." 

She  reached  the  wicket,  and  expected  to  find  his  arm 
around  her  and  his  words  of  welcome  and  devotion  in 
her  ears,  but  the  whole  place  was  silent  and  motionless 
in  the  calm  stillness  of  the  moonlight. 

Not  a  breath  of  wind  stirred,  not  a  twig  of  the  snow- 
laden  branches  but  seemed  carved  in  ebony  and  ivory  im- 
possible of  motion. 

Amid  all  her  passionate  eagerness  Stella's  heart  gave 
a  leap  of  fear  and  alarm,  but  she  shook  it  off  with  a  rally- 
ing sigh,  and  placing  her  hand  on  the  small  wicket, 

MS 


146  Stetttfs  Fortune. 

waited,  her  face  turned  toward  the  entrance  of  the  Hut 

Suddenly,  as  if  it  had  sprung  from  the  ground,  the 
figure  of  a  man  stood  beside  her. 

She  turned  and  the  cry  of  alarm  which  she  was  about 
to  utter  died  on  her  lips  frozen  with  fear. 

The  man  was  wrapped  up  to  the  point  of  disguise; 
nothing  but  a  pair  of  dark,  brooding  eyes  were  discerni- 
ble, and  as  he  laid  his  hand  on  her  arm  Stella  had  not  the 
slightest  suspicion  of  his  identity. 

"Don't  be  frightened,  miss,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  of 
feigned  thickness.  "You're  Miss  Newton,  ain't  you?" 

"If  I  am,"  breathed  Stella,  "what  do  you  want  with 
me?" 

"I've  come  from — you  know  who." 

"Speak  out  plainly,"  said  Stella,  pressing  her  hand 
upon  her  bosom  and  summoning  up  all  her  courage. 

"From  Mr.  Felton,  if  you  must  have  it,"  growled  the 
man,  evidently  annoyed  by  her  unexpected  interruption. 
"I've  come  to  tell  you  as  he  can't  meet  you  here,  but  that 
you're  to  come  with  me  to  the  carriage  entrance  around  at 
the  side." 

"Cannot  come  here!"   faltered   Stella.     "Why   not?" 

"He's  afraid  of  being  watched;  one  as  is  his  enemy — 
you  don't  want  his  name,  do  you? — has  got  some  sus- 
picion of  this  meeting  and  might — 

Stella  caught  the  man's  arm  and  looked  around  with 
genuine  alarm. 

"Sir  Richard!"  she  exclaimed.  "Near  here!  Come! 
I  will  go  with  you  at  once!" 

The  man  smiled  with  dark  meaning  and  tramped  off, 
Stella  followed  with  beating  heart  and  anxious  face. 

They  made  the  curve  of  the  fence  and  came  upon  what 
was  called  the  carriage  entrance,  from  the  fact  of  the 
road  broadening  at  the  place  and  allowing  of  a  vehicle  to 
turn,  which  it  could  not  do  at  any  other  part  of  the  drive. 
As  they  turned  the  corner  Stella  started. 

"What  is  that?"  she  said,  raising  her  hand  and  point- 
ing to  something  black  and  square  which  stood  close 
against  the  rough,  uneven  hedge. 

"That's  a  carriage ;  it's  all  right,"  replied  the  man.  "Mr. 
Felton  is  waiting  inside." 


Stella's  Fortune.  "147 

Stella  drew  back  and  eyed  her  guide  with  a  keen, 
piercing  doubtfulness. 

"A  carriage !"  she  said.  "Mr.  Felton  inside !  I  do  not 
believe  it !  I  will  go  no  farther,"  and  she  drew  back  with 
a  gesture  of  determination. 

"Hush,  Miss!  Don't  speak  so  loud,"  exclaimed  the 
man,  sliding  up  to  her  with  a  sinister  scowl. 

"Do  you  want  to  alarm  the  neighborhood  and  call  it  up 
to  find  ye  here?  Come,  you  must  come  now  you've  got 
thus  far,  it's  more  than  I  dare  do  to  go  back !  Mr.  Fel- 
ton 'ud  pay  me  pretty  severely  for  such  a  mistake." 

'No,"  said  Stella,  "I  will  not  go!  Go  to  Mr.  Felton 
and  tell  him  that  I  have  gone  back  and — and  that  I  can- 
not— no,  I  cannot  obey  him !" 

She  turned  as  she  spoke  and  gathered  her  wrap  around 
her,  preparatory  to  making  good  her  escape,  but  the  man, 
evidently  divining  her  intention,  sprang  noiselessly  upon 
her,  and,  taking  her  up  in  his  strong  arms,  carried  and 
half  dragged  her  to  the  carriage — skillfully  twisting  her 
cloak  around  her  face  as  he  did  so,  so  that  it  was  impos- 
sible for  her  to  shriek  or  call  for  assistance.  But  Stella 
was  strong  for  a  woman,  stronger  than  her  captor  had 
given  her  credit  for  being,  and  she  struggled  so  fiercely 
that  by  the  time  he  had  carried  her  within  arm's  length 
of  the  carriage  she  had  succeeded  in  uncovering  her 
mouth,  and,  raising  her  voice  to  its  utmost,  sent  forth  a 
piercing  scream. 

Before  its  echo  had  died  away  a  figure  darted  from  out 
of  the  hedge  and  dashing  at  her  captor,  hurled  him  to  the 
ground,  Stella  being  dragged  down  in  his  fall. 

Before  the  prostrate  man  could  regain  his  feet  the 
stranger  flung  himself  upon  his  breast  and  held  him  down 
to  the  ground. 

Stella,  trembling  in  every  limb,  and  white  as  the  snow, 
sprang  to  her  feet,  and,  leaning  against  the  carriage  door, 
struggled  with  a  deathly  faintness  which  rapidly  threat- 
ened to  overcome  her. 

A  voice — the  voice  of  the  person  who  had  so  oppor- 
tunely arrived  to  rescue  her — thased  her  swoon  away. 

At  the  sound  of  the  voice,  Stella  sprang  forward. 

"Sir  Richard  Wildfang!"  she  exclaimed. 


I4&  Stella's  Fortune. 

"Miss  Newton!"  was  the  astonished  retort  "Can  I 
believe  my  senses?  How  came  you  in  this  ruffian's 
power?" 

As  he  spoke  he  raised  his  hand  and  struck  the  prostrate 
man  with  his  fist. 

Stella  pressed  both  her  hands  upon  her  aching  brow 
and  swayed  like  a  reed  shaken  in  the  wind. 

"Don't  ask  me ;  I  implore  you  humbly,  do  not  ask  me !" 

Sir  Richard  arose,  still  keeping  his  hand  upon  the  arm 
of  the  ruffian,  now  captured  in  his  turn,  and  looked  at 
her  with  a  fine  expression  of  mingled  pain  and  regret. 

Then  he  bowed  silently  and  turned  to  the  man. 

"At  least  we  will  unmask  this  ruffian ;  you  will  permit 
me  to  do  that?" 

Stella  made  a  gesture  of  assent  with  her  hand. 

Sir  Richard  struck  the  cap  off  the  man's  head  and  tore 
away  the  comforter  which  covered  the  lower  part  of  his 
face  and  revealed  the  features  of  Stephen  Hargrove. 

Stella  uttered  a  cry  of  despair. 

Sir  Richard  fell  back,  with  a  look  of  indignant  horror. 

"Stephen  Hargrave,"  he  said.  "Mr.  Louis  Felton's 
servant !" 

Stella  shrank  closer  to  the  carriage  and  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands. 

Both  the  men  knew  that  she  was  weeping. 

Sir  Richard  grasped  the  man  by  the  arm  and  dragged 
him  into  the  full  moonlight. 

"No,"  he  exclaimed,  his  voice  thick  with  indignant 
rage,  "you  shall  not  escape  your  punishment,  though  this 
lady,  whom  you  have  so  insulted,  pleads  for  you.  An- 
swer me,  you  ruffian !" 

And  he  shook  him  as  he  would  have  done  a  dog,  Ste- 
phen Hargrave  submitting  indeed  with  a  dogged  moodi- 
ness. 

"Who  is  the  instigator — the  chief  of  this  outrage? 
You  are  only  a  tool,  I  feel  assured.  Speak,  or  I'll  choke 
you,  ruffian!" 

Stephen  Hargrave  hung  his  head  and  glanced  sideways 
at  Stella. 

Sir  Richard  was  also  looking  that  way  from  the  cor- 
ners of  his  eyes. 


Stella's  Fortune.  149 

Stephen  Hargrave  waited  until  he  saw  that  she  was 
listening,  with  strained  intent,  and  fearful  face,  then  said 
sullenly : 

"That  will  do,  Sir  Richard.  You  don't  want  to  choke 
me,  and  let  my  betters  go  free.  I'm  only  a  servant ;  I've 
got  my  living  to  get,  and  don't  wish  the  young  lady  no 
harm.  If  I'm  ordered  to  do  anything,  and  well  paid  for 
doing  it,  ain't  I  obliged  to  do  it?" 

"Quick!"  sair  Sir  Richard,  sternly.  "Who  ordered 
you  to  commit  this  crime?  What  scoundrel  could  dare 
so  base  a  thing?  Quick,  or  I'll " 

"Who  should  order  me  but  my  master — Mr.  Felton?" 
sullenly  retorted  Stephen. 

Stella  uttered  a  faint,  despairing  cry. 

Sir  Richard  shook  his  man  roughly. 

"That's  false,  it  must  be,"  he  said  in  a  broken  voice. 

"False,  why?  What  'ud  be  the  good  of  trying  to  de- 
ceive you?"  said  Stephen.  "Besides,  do  I  want  Miss 
Newton?  Should  I've  got  a  carriage  to  run  away  with 
her  in?" 

"True,"  muttered  Sir  Richard.  "But  I  cannot  believe 
it realize  it." 

Then  he  turned  to  Stella. 

"Can  you  supply  the  clew?  I  beseech  you — for  your 

own  safety  and  honor to  answer  me.  Did  Mr.  Felton 

make  this  appointment — ask  you  to  meet  him  here?" 

Stella  inclined  her  head  and  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands. 

Sir  Richard  sighed. 

"Base,  vile  scoundrel,  to  take  advantage  of  your  trust- 
ing! Vile  indeed  must  be  the  man  who  would  suffer 

you  to  be  thus  insulted ;  to  hire  a  ruffian  like  this  to — to 
>f 

And,  as  if  overwhelmed  with  rage  and  indignation,  Sir 
Richard  turned  away  his  head  and  groaned. 

Then  Stella,  as  if  stung  into  doubt  by  the  enormity  of 
the  crime  which  was  imputed  to  her  lover,  sprang  for- 
ward, and  laying  her  hand  upon  Stephen's  arm,  cried  in 
piteous  accepts: 

"No,  no!  there  must  be  some  dreadful  mistake.  It  is 
-—it  must  be  false !  Confess  that  this  wickedness  sprang 


150  Stellcfs  Fortune. 

unbidden  from  your  own  bad  heart.  Confess  that  Mr. 
Felton  knows  nothing  of  it!  Oh!  say  it  is  false  and — 
and  I  will  forgive  you  and  let  you  go  unpunished!" 

"I'll  say  what  you  like,"  said  Stephen,  sullenly.  "But 
the  truth  is  the  truth,  and  that  is  that  I'm  only  d'oing  my 
master's  bidding." 

Stella's  wild  eyes  fixed  themselves  upon  his  face  with 
soul-searching  scrutiny  for  a  moment. 

Then  with  a  sob,  she  threw  up  her  face. 

"I  do  not — I  will  not  believe  it  He  is  incapable  of 
such  baseness." 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

"FOREVER/' 

Mark  me,  Antonio,  when  a  bad  man  smiles 
Be  sure  some  honest  heart  must  weep, 
For  there   is  that  within   his  triumph 
Which  sets  a   field  of  pain. 

As  if  in  mockery  of  her  pure  trust  in  him,  Louis  voice 
at  that  moment  broke  the  silence,  for  as  his  well-known 
form  leaped  the  old  gate  and  came  into  the  moonlight,  he 
cried : 

"Stephen,  where  are  you  ?  Are  you  ready  ?" 

Sir  Richard  glanced  at  Stella  as  one  who  should  say: 

"You  see  it  is  only  too  true.  He  thinks  you  safe  within 
his  clutches." 

Then,  as  Louis  came  upon  the  group,  and  stopped  to 
stare  with  incredulous  astonishment,  Sir  Richard  ad- 
vanced toward  him  with  clinched  hands  and  compressed 
lips. 

Louis  stared  at  him,  then  adranced  to  Stella. 

"Miss  Newton — Stella,  what  is  all  this  ?  Why  are  you 
here?  Sir  Richard  Wildfang,  too!  What  does  it  all 
mean  ?" 

Sir  Richard,  with  an  anxiety  not  disinterested,  inter- 
rupted him  hastily. 

"It  means,  sir,  that  your  villainy  is  unmasked;  that 
Miss  Newton  knows  you  now  for  what  you  really  are — a 
base,  criminal  adventurer." 

"Stop!"  said  a  voice,  that  was  Stella's,  yet  so  unlike, 
so  dreadfully,  quietly  calm  that  it  might  have  belonged  to 
an  automaton.  And  she,  with  an  expressive  gesture,  mo- 
tioned Sir  Richard  aside,  and,  advancing,  confronted 
Louis  with  white,  drawn  face,  and  dark,  accusing  eyes. 

"It  means,  sir,"  she  said,  in  regular,  metallic  tones, 

Mi 


152  Stella's  Fortune. 

"that  one  you  had  succeeded  in  deceiving  is  now  unde- 
ceived ;  that  one  whom  you  taught  to  love  you  has  now 
learned  to  hate  you ;  that  one  who  would  have  given  her 
life  to  have  purchased  you  an  hour's  happiness  would 
now  give  her  life  to  secure  your  punishment.  It  means 
that  from  a  trusting  girl  you  have  transformed  me  by 
your  baseness  to  an  insulted  woman.  All  this  it  means, 
and  this  much  more,  that,  having  escaped  your  mercenary 
clutches,  the  woman  you  attempted  to  deceive  has  learned 
the  bitter  lesson  of  a  wasted  love  and  a  wasted  life.  Go, 
sir,  from  my  path  forevermore.  Should  you  cross  it 
again — beware!  I  shall  find  some  means  of  resenting 
the  insult  of  your  presence." 

Then  she  let  the  hand  fall  which  she  had  raised  in  de- 
nunciation, and  turned. 

Louis  stood  for  a  moment,  white  and  statuesque  with 
astonishment,  then  he  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead, 
looked  up  at  the  clear  sky  to  assure  himself  that  it  was 
not  a  dream,  and  held  out  both  his  hands  imploringly. 

"Stella!  Tell  me  what  it  all  means!  How  have  I 
wronged  you — how  deceived?" 

Stella  turned  again,  her  face  lit  up  with  passionate 
scorn. 

"Would  you  have  me  recite  the  story  of  your  vile  plot?" 
she  asked,  huskily.  "Look  within  your  own  heart  and 
read  in  its  baseness  the  reason  for  my  accusation!" 

"This  is  madness,"  he  said.  "Vile  plot — baseness ! — of 
what  do  you  accuse  me?" 

"Of  the  vilest  dishonor !"  said  Stella,  confronting  him. 
"Do  you  ask  for  proofs  ?  Seek  them  in  the  confession  of 
your  tool  and  accomplice,  who  has  sought  safety  in 
flight ;  seek  them  in  the  evidence  that  remains — that  car- 
riage!" 

"Accomplice— carriage !"  repeated  Louis.  "Stella,  that 
carriage — oh!  listen,  I  beseech  you!"  For  Stella  had 
taken  the  arm  which  Sir  Richard  had  in  stern  silence 
offered  her,  and,  though  stung  through  all  his  soul  by 
the  sight,  Louis  still  spoke  calmly  and  humbly. 

"I  have  heard  too  much  of  your  honied  words;  they 
can  deceive  me  no  longer!"  said  Stella,  coldly,  over  her 
shoulder. 


Stella's  Fortune.  153 

"This  much  you  shall  tell  me !"  exclaimed  Louis,  spring- 
ing forward,  his  face  white  with  passion,  his  teeth 
clinched,  and  his  eyes  blazing.  "And  I  ask  it  from  your 
false  lips,  Sir  Richard  Wildfang."  And  as  he  spoke  he 
grasped  Sir  Richard's  arm.  "How  came  you  here — both 
she  and  you?" 

"Ask  your  own  conscience,"  said  Stella,  faltering  for 
the  first  time.  "Did  you  not  write  me  a  letter?" 

"I  did/'  said  Louis. 

"Enough!"  exclaimed  Sir1  Richard.  "He  confesses  his 
baseness.  Leave  us,  sir,  if  you  have  the  slightest  vestige 
of  honor  remaining !" 

Louis  drew  himself  up,  and,  casting  a  look  of  scornful 
contempt  upon  the  all-anxious  face  of  Sir  Richard,  ap- 
pealed to  Stella. 

"Miss  Newton,  do  you  also  say  'go'?" 

"I  do!"  said  Stella. 

"You  cast  me  off — forever?" 

"Forever,"  said  Stella. 

He  said  not  another  word,  but,  crossing  his  arms, 
stepped  from  their  path,  and  watched  them  with  set, 
stone-like  face,  until  they  were  lost  to  him  around  the 
curve  of  the  road. 

He  waited  even  after  that  for  the  space  of  five  minutes, 
then  he  turned  and  walked  with  slow,  measured  pace  up 
his  own  carriage  entrance. 

He  slowly  climbed  the  broad  stone  steps  up  which  he 
had,  so  short  a  time  since,  and  so  proudly  led  his  beau- 
tiful Stella,  and,  with  the  same  indescribable  expression 
of  concentrated,  deadly  calm,  pushed  open  the  door  and 
entered  the  antique  dining-room. 

He  stood  before  the  fire  musing  for  a  few  moments, 
thinking  of  all  he  had  lost  and  the  mysterious,  inex- 
plicable manner  in  which  he  had  lost  it,  then  without  a 
sigh — his  sorrow  had  not  really  that  distinctness  yet — he 
walked  into  his  studio. 

A  light  was  burning  there,  and  the  marbles  seemed  to 
grin  and  mock  at  his  misery  and  loneliness,  as  with  folded 
arms  and  absent  air  he  walked  around  the  room  and 
locked  at  them. 

"Here  in  this  room,"  he  murmured,  "I  held  her  against 


154  Stella's  Fortune. 

my  heart.  Here  her  lips — so  false !  so  cruel ! told  me 

that  she  loved  me !  Here  the  sweetest  happiness  my  life 
has  ever  known  fell  to  me.  Blessed  be  the  room — for- 
evermore.  Those  blind  eyes,"  and  he  swept  his  hand 
before  the  sightless  marble  faces,  "shall  see  no  misery,  no 
other  love  scene  here!  I  swore  to  break  them,  one  and 
all,  if  we  were  parted.  We  are  parted,  and  I  will  keep  my 
vow." 

As  he  spoke  he  took  up  the  heaviest  mallet,  and  with 
a  passion  utterly  indescribable  struck  first  at  one  beautiful 
face  and  then  at  another,  until  the  room  was  filled  with 
the  noise  of  falling  marble,  and  the  fragments  themselves, 
as  they  dropped  and  rolled  about  his  feet. 

With  the  mallet  in  his  hand  he  went  into  the  garden, 
made  his  way  to  the  shrubbery,  Where  they  had  talked  so 
long  and  joyously,  and  raised  his  destroying  mallet  be- 
fore the  face  of  a  statue  which  he  and  Stephen  had  only 
that  day  set  up  there. 

It  was  the  statue  of  the  mother  and  child  which  he  had 
worked  at  so  enthusiastically,  and  which  he  had  placed  on 
the  very  spot  in  accordance  with  Stella's  expressed  wish. 

But  as  his  mallet  was  swung  back  a  twinge  of  regret 
and  remorse  struck  across  his  soul,  and  with  a  sigh  he  let 
the  mallet  fall  to  his  side,  gazed  up  at  the  plaintive  face 
of  the  mother,  and  murmured : 

"No,  it  is  sorrow  and  despair  itself.  It  shall  stand !" 

Then  he  flung  the  mallet  from  him,  and,  with  drooping 
head,  re-entered  the  house. 

With  the  same  calm  self-possession,  which  had  settled 
upon  him  as  the  snow  does  upon  the  mountain,  he  as- 
cended the  stairs,  and  entering  the  room  slowly  and 
methodically,  put  on  his  overcoat  and  heavy  walking 
boots. 

Then  he  descended  again,  went  through  every  room, 
locked  every  door,  and,  flinging  the  keys  into  the  farther- 
most corner  of  the  studio,  left  the  house  as  desolate  and 
silent  as  he  had  found  it  on  that  Christmas  eve  upon 
which  he  had  met  Stella— his  beautiful,  cruel  and  only 
love — at  the  little  wicket. 

When  he  got  clear  of  the  grounds  he  stood,  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  looked  back  at  the  Vale,  which  was  all  alight 


Stella's  Fortune.  155 

in  the  clear  night,  and  at  a  steady,  swinging  pace  started 
off  on  the  London  road. 

For  some  few  minutes  Stella  and  her  companion  and 
protector  remained  profoundly  silent. 

Every  now  and  then  Sir  Richard's  dark  eyes  took 
stealthy  glances  at  her  face,  but  its  expression  was  not 
encouraging. 

Stella  was  still  as  white  as  the  snow  and  as  hard  as  the 
frost. 

Her  eyes  were  bent  upon  the  ground,  her  lips  com- 
pressed. The  hand  which  held  her  wrap  around  her  was 
clinched  hard  and  fast  as  marble  upon  her  bosom. 

Altogether  she  was  as  statuesque  as  Louis,  whom  she 
had  left  watching  her  retreating  form. 

But  as  they  neared  the  Vale  the  little  frost  of  despair, 
broken  love,  and  disappointment  wavered  and  began  to 
thaw. 

Her  lips  trembled,  her  hand  unclasped  and  clasped 
again  spasmodically,  her  eyelids  quivered,  and  Sir  Rich- 
ard, glancing  stealthily  again,  saw  a  tear  slip  from  under 
the  lowered  lids  and  fall  upon  her  pale  cheek. 

Then  he  thought  it  was  time  to  speak,  and,  having 
learned  his  part  most  thoroughly,  he  commenced  to  take 
it  up  at  the  point  at  which  he  had  been  compelled  to  drop 
it  for  a  while. 

"Miss  Newton — IStella,"  he  murmured,  in  the  softest, 
most  dulcet  tone  of  sympathy,  "do  not  let  your  gentle 
heart  distress  itself.  The  cause  is  not  worth  a  tear! 
Think  how  mercifully  you  have  been  permitted  to  escape 
a  great  misfortune.  Remember  what  a  vile  plotter  you 
have  been  rescued  from,  and  look  more  hopefully,  and — 
dare  I  say? — thankfully  upon  the  future." 

Stella  turned  her  pale  face  to  him. 

"Sir  Richard,"  she  said,  in  a  very  low,  flattering  voice, 
"I  am  grateful  to  you,  though  I  cannot  show  it.  I  know 
from  what  you  have  rescued  me.  From  a  life  of  misery, 
chained  to  one  who  would  have  snared  me  for  the  worth- 
less dross  which  has  clung  to  me  like  a  curse !  Oh,  that  I 
had  been  the  poorest  peasant  on  earth  rather  than  my 
wealth  should  have  tempted  him  to  such  baseness !" 

Her  tears  fell  fast  and  she  turned  her  head  aside. 


156  Stella's  Fortune. 

"Do  not  think  any  more  of  him ;  he  is  not  worth  a 
thought,"  pleaded  Sir  Richard.  "He  will  never  cross 
your  path  again.  You  must  forget  him." 

"Forget  him !"  said  Stella,  with  a  bitter  smile.  "I  shall 
not  be  permitted  to  do  that.  You  forget  that  I  have  to 
meet  a  mother's  just  reproaches.  I  am  justly  punished 
for  deceiving  her.  But,  alas!  that  punishment  will  be 
severe." 

"You  fear,  Miss  Newton,"  said  Sir  Richard,  more 
softly  than  ever.  "Why  should  you  give  her  unnecessary 
pain  and  anxiety?  Let  me  enjoy  the  happiness  of  taking 
the  responsibility  of  this  night's  events." 

"You?"  said  Stella,  half  shrinking  from  him. 

"Yes,  I,"  said  Sir  Richard.  "Do  you  remember  the 
promise  you  gave?  Though  it  was  a  solemn  promise,  I 
would  not  have  reminded  you  of  it  but  that  by  so  doing 
I  may  be  able  to  spare  you  pain." 

He  paused  for  a  moment. 

Stella  turned  colder  even  than  she  grew  in  the  moment 
of  her  belief  in  Louis'  treachery. 

"Remember  how  I  loved  you,  how  patiently  I  pleaded, 
how  patiently  I  waited.  Had  that  scoundrel  proved  all 
you  could  have  wished  him,  all  he  ought  to  have  proved 
with  such  an  incentive  to  virtue  as  your  love,  I  would 
never  have  spoken  of  my  love  to  you  again.  But  now 
dare  I  hope  that  you  will  pardon  me  if  I  remind  you  of 
your  promise?  He  has  proved  himself  to  be  unworthy 
of  your  love — dishonorable,  mercenary,  base,  vile.  Will 
you  keep  your  promise?" 

He  bent  over  as  he  breathed  the  words  in  his  softest, 
most  musical  tones  and  gently  but  firmly  took  her  cold 
hand. 

She  let  it  remain  in  his,  passive  and  icy. 

"Your  promise,"  he  breathed.    "You  will  keep  it?" 

Stella  looked  up  at  the  sky  and  around  at  the  snow- 
clothed  park,  with  a  wild,  helpless,  despairing  gaze. 

What  mattered  her  fate  now  that  her  heart  was  broken  ? 

As  well  marry  Sir  Richard,  whom  she  disliked,  as  an- 
other. All  men  were  one  to  her  now — she  dreaded,  dis- 
trusted every  son  of  Adam  now  that  the  prince  of  them 


Stellcts  Fortune.  157 

all  had  turned  out  to  be  but  a  fiend  in  the  disguise  of  an 
angel ! 

"I  will  keep  my  promise,"  she  said,  in  a  faint,  low  voice. 

Sir  Richard  bent  over  her  hand,  and  pressed  his  lips 
upon  it. 

"Heaven  bless  you!"  he  murmured.  "I  cannot  thank 
you;  my  heart  is  brimming  o'er  with  happiness." 

Like  a  wise  man  he  said  no  more. 

They  reached  the  Vale,  and  Stella  entered  the  hall. 

Mrs.  Newton  came  from  the  drawing-room,  white  with 
anger  and  anxiety. 

"Stella,  you  wicked,  wicked  girl,  where  have  you 
been?  I  have " 

Then  she  stopped  suddenly  as  she  caught  sight  of  Sir 
Rickard,  and  stared  from  one  to  the  other. 

"You  are  alarmed,  no  doubt,  my  dear  Mrs.  Newton," 
he  said,  coming  forward,  in  his  quiet,  self-possessed  way, 
and  with  his  calmest,  most  placid  smile.  "Miss  Stella  has 
been  taking  a  moonlight  stroll  in  the  park,  when  I  had  the 
happiness  of  meeting  her." 

Mrs.  Newton  turned  to  Stella,  who  smiled  a  dreadful, 
ghastly  smile,  and  slowly  ascending  the  stairs. 

Then  Sir  Richard  gently  led  Mrs.  Newton  into  the 
dining-room,  and  with  a  smile  of  triumph  that  was  not  all 
feigned,  said,  in  his  silkiest  whisper : 

"My  dear  madam,  congratulate  me !  Miss  Newton  has 
promised  to  make  me  the  happiest  man  in  the  world !" 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

IN  BUDDING  SPRINGTIME. 

He  buys  an  empty  casket,  from  which 

The  jewels  are  rifled,  who  takes 

A  woman's  hand  without  her  heart. 

The  snow  had  gone.  Winter  had  given  place  to  spring. 

In  place  of  hoar  frost  and  east  winds,  soft  dews 
spangled  the  fields  with  diamonds  and  gentle  breezes 
waved  the  buds  and  blossoms. 

Down  at  Heavithorne  both  the  Hut  and  the  Vale  were 
shut  up  and  silent,  and  the  deer  rambled  fearlessly  around 
each,  and  couched  upon  the  paths  which  Louis  Felton 
and  his  love  Stella,  who  had  driven  him  from  her  pres- 
ence, had  walked  side  by  side  and  heart  to  heart. 

That  same  Stella — the  same,  and  yet  not  the  same  if 
internal  change  counts  for  anything — was  in  London, 
again  the  belle  of  society,  and  again  pledged  to  marrv 
the  wealthy  and  powerful  Sir  Richard  Wildfang ! 

Changed  indeed  was  Stella! 

Those  who  had  in  the  previous  season  deemed  her 
proud  now  declared  that  her  hauteur  was  unbearable,  and 
Mrs.  Newton,  the  wily  mother  who  had  succeeded  in  sell- 
ing her  daughter  to  the  best  advantage,  was  not  excepted 
from  the  quiet,  unexpressed  scorn  with  which  the  beauti- 
ful girl  seemed  to  regard  men  and  women  alike. 

With  scrupulous  consistency  Stella  went  through  her 
round  of  duty,  neglecting  nothing  and  pleading  no 
weariness. 

Balls,  concerts,  picture  galleries,  she  was  present  at  all, 
always  under  the  guardianship  and  in  the  possession  of 
Sir  Richard  Wildfang. 

So  little  was  her  face  the  index  of  her  feelings  that  Sir 
Richard  himself,  as  acute  a  reader  of  faces  as  any  on  the 
habitable  globe,  was  puzzled  and  perplexed  by  it. 

158 


Stella's  Fortune.  159 

Had  she  forgotten  that  moonlight  night  when  he  had 
thwarted  the  foolish  idiot  of  a  sculptor? — for  so  Sir  Rich- 
ard always  designated  Louis  Felton  in  his  thoughts — or 
did  she  still  remember  and  cherish  a  secret  regret  and 
remorse  ? 

If  Sir  Richard  could  not  decipher  the  calm,  self-pos- 
sessed face  of  his  bride-elect,  all  the  rest  of  the  world 
must  of  necessity  fail. 

As  for  Sir  Richard  himself,  he  was  calmer,  more 
placidly  self-satisfied  than  ever. 

Around  him,  in  the  commercial  world,  well-known 
firms  and  houses  once  of  high  repute  tottered  and  fell, 
but  the  house  of  Wildfang  &  Co.  stood  unshaken,  look- 
ing down  like  a  colossus  or  a  sphinx  at  the  crumbling1 
ruins  of  fair  fame  and  high  names  which  were  strewn 
at  its  feet. 

The  world  looked  on  and  bowed  down  to  his  wisdom 
and  sagacity  with  more  admiring  suppleness  than  ever, 
and  new  companies  toiled,  schemed  and  diplomatized  to 
obtain  his  name  upon  their  prospectuses. 

Perhaps  Mr.  Dewlap,  the  confidential  manager,  could 
have  undeceived  the  world,  and  stripped  the  feathers  from 
the  golden  owl,  but  Mr.  Dewlap  was  the  discreetest  of  his 
class  and  looked  on  with  closed  lips  and  meditative  eyes, 
while  he  watched  the  world  fall  down  at  the  feet  of  his 
master  and  worship. 

There  were  some  keen-sighted  men  who  said  that  the 
immense  weight  of  business  which  Sir  Richard's  shoul- 
ders supported  was  telling  upon  him ;  that  his  face  had  at 
times  a  slightly  weary  and  over-watchful  expression,  and 
that  the  smile,  which,  ever  as  of  old,  sat  upon  his  face 
was  as  a  sunbeam  upon  ice  on  a  cold  January  morning, 
was  a  trifle,  a  trifle  only,  overstrained. 

"But  what  wonder  if  it  should  be  so  ?"  they  exclaimed 
in  chorus,  and  the  little  signs  of  thought  only  added  to  his 
popularity. 

No  man  is  a  hero  to  his  valet,  and  perhaps  Sir  Rich- 
ard's could,  like  Dewlap,  have  played  the  part  of  icono- 
clast. 

He  might  have  told  of  sleepless  nights,  of  measured 
pacings  across  the  luxurious  bedchamber,  of  startings 


160  Stella's  Fortune. 

of  the  violent  groans  with  which  his  master — half  asleep 
— greeted  his  appearance  one  morning,  and  the  wild 
words : 

"Take  the  child  away !" 

But  the  valet  was  as  discreet  as  Mr.  Dewlap,  took  his 
wages,  dressed  his  master  to  perfection,  and — most  valu- 
able service  of  all — held  his  tongue. 

And  Louis  Felton — where  was  he? 

Ask  it  of  the  wilds  of  Corsica,  the  plains  of  Nevada,  of 
any  of  the  out  of  the  way  places  of  the  uncivilized  globe, 
and  they  could  answer  better  than  the  fashionable  world 
of  London,  which  knew  him  not  when  he  was  in  its  midst, 
and  knew  not  whither  he  had  gone  now  that  he  had  de- 
parted. 

The  man  Stephen  Hargrave  had  also  disappeared. 

There  was  a  report  in  Heavithorne  that  a  face  and  form 
like  his  had  been  seen  passing  through  the  village  on  a 
cold,  sleety,  night ;  but  the  report  was  only  partially  cred- 
ited, and  the  majority  of  the  good,  simple  folks  firmly  be- 
lieved that  he  had  delivered  himself  up  to  the  malignant 
power  to  whom,  in  pursuance  of  a  long-standing  treaty, 
he  was  due ;  and  they  would  have  let  him  slip  from  their 
memory  even  more  quickly  had  his  name  not  been  useful 
In  scaring  disobedient  children. 

To  tell  the  willful  child  in  Heavithorne  that  Stephen 
Hargrave  was  coming  to  eat  him  if  he  did  not  reform; 
produced  a  marked  improvement  in  his  behavior. 

So  the  spring  wore  on  to  summer,  and  one  morning 
Mrs.  Newton,  entering  the  breakfast-room,  which  was 
flooded  with  the  June  sunlight,  sighed  mentally,  and, 
glancing  at  Stella,  who  sat  toying  with  a  scrap  of  toast 
too  small  to  satisfy  the  hunger  of  a  London  sparrow,  said : 

"The  heat  is  unendurable,  already;  what  will  it  be  in 
another  month's  time  ?  I  really  think  we'd  better  go  down 
to  the  Vale." 

Stella  looked  up,  and  across  her  face  there  flashed  a 
sharp  spasm  of  pain,  just  such  a  fleeting  look  as  touches 
the  face  of  a  man  who  has  endured  a  blow  upon  an  tin- 
healed  wound. 

"To  the  Vale?"  she  said,  listlessly  relapsing  into  her  old 
attitude  of  meditation. 


Stella's  Fortune.  161 

"Yes;  have  you  any  objections  to  urge?  You  gen- 
erally have;  or,  if  you  haven't  you  look  as  if  you  had." 

"I  have  no  objection.  I  do  not  wish  to  go,  but  that  is 
not  an  objection  tangible  enough  to  prevent  us,"  said 
Stella,  in  calmly  measured  tones  of  the  most  profound 
indifference. 

"Exactly,"  retorted  Mrs.  Newton,  with  greater  irrita- 
tion, and  an  infusion  of  complaint  in  her  tone.  "That  is 
what  I  complain  of.  You  appear  to  care  for  nothing. 
You  go  here  and  you  go  there  as  if  you  had  no  life  in  you, 
no  choice  in  the  matter.  When  Richard " 

Mrs.  Newton  always  spoke  of  Sir  Richard  as  "Rich- 
ard," familiarly  and  proudly. 

Stella  scarcely  ever  mentioned  his  name,  but  if  she  did 
she  always  gave  him  his  title. 

"When  Sir  Richard  proposed  that  we  should  go  to  Nor- 
mandy, and  actually  promised  to  join  us  for  a  little  while 
if  he  could,  you  appeared  as  insensible  of  his  kindness  as 
if  he  had  not  suggested  the  movement." 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  said  Stella.  "I  did  not  object  to 
go  to  Normandy." 

"No,  but  you  looked  so  indifferent  that  Richard  imme- 
diately recommended  us  to  remain  in  town.  I  am  sure 
you  might  show  some  interest  in — in — matters  when  he  is 
so  extremely — so  ridiculously — kind." 

"Sir  Richard  is  very  kind,"  said  Stella,  coldly,  "and  I 
am  always  ready  to  accede  to  any  request  of  his  or  yours, 
mamma.  If  you  wish  me  to  go  down  to  the  Vale  I  will 
go — willingly." 

"And  cheerfully!"  added  Mrs.  Newton,  with  an  iron- 
ical toss  of  her  head.  "Stella,  I  do  not  know  what  has 
come  to  you.  I  think  it  is  wicked  when  one  has  been  so 
fortunate — -so  wonderfully  fortunate,  I  may  say — as  you 
have  been,  to  go  about  as  if  you  were  repining  at  your 
lot.  You  have  been  fortunate,  too!  It  is  my  great  con- 
solation to  think  that  I  have  so  managed  to  secure  your 
happiness,  and  you  ought  to  be  grateful.  It  was  all  my 
management." 

"Not  altogether,"  said  Stella,  with  a  smile  at  once 
strange  and  bitter. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  how  much  you  conduced  to  the 


162  Stella's  Fortune. 

result,"  said  Mrs.  Newton.  "If  it  had  not  been  for  me, 
a  sensible,  affectionate  parent  you  might" — and  she  shud- 
dered with  ineffable  contempt  and  horror — "have  been 
married  or  engaged  to  some  poverty-stricken  young  man, 
or  one  of  these  new  men  that  one  meets  in  society,  ar- 
tists and  authors  and  that  sort  of  people,  dreadfully  ill 
bred  and  fearfully  poor.  Why,  look  at  that  sculptor 
man — that  Louis  Felton " 

It  was  the  first  time  Louis'  name  had  been  mentioned  in 
Stella's  hearing  since  that  never-to-be-forgotten  night. 

She  arose,  calm  still,  but  fearfully  pale,  and  moved  to- 
ward the  door,  saying,  without  looking  around: 

"I  will  get  ready  to  go  with  you  to  Madam  Cerise, 
mamma." 

And  so  left  the  room  before  the  cruel,  contemptuous 
sentence  could  be  finished. 

As  she  re-entered,  dressed  for  the  drive,  a  footman  an- 
nounced Sir  Richard. 

Mrs.  Newton  advanced,  all  smiles  and  gushing  wel- 
come. 

"My  dear  Richard!"  she  exclaimed,  extending  her 
hand  with  empressement,  "how  good  of  you  to  look  in 
upon  us  so  early,  and  you  so  busy  too !  Stella  will  be  de- 
lighted; she  has  gone  upstairs  to  get  ready  for  a  drive. 
Oh,  here  she  is !"  she  continued,  as  Stella,  looking  any- 
thing but  "so  delighted,"  came  forward. 

Sir  Richard  bent  over  her  extended  hand,  and  pressed 
his  lips  to  it — the  warmest  caress  he  had  ever  dared  to 
bestow. 

"I  shall  not  keep  you,"  he  said.  "You  are  quite  right 
in  getting  out  early  before  the  heat  of  noon.  I  came  to 
ask  you  if  I  could  do  anything  for  you  at  Heavithorne." 

"Are  you  going  clown  there?"  asked  Mrs.  Newton. 

Stella  had  not  spoken. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "I  am  going  down  to  the  Box  tomor- 
row for  some  papers  I  left  there,  and  shall  remain  all 
night ;  so  that  if  I  can  be  of  any  service " 

"N — o,  thank  you,  dear  Richard,"  said  Mrs.  Newton. 
"I  don't  think  there  is  anything  you  can  do  for  us,  is 
there  Stella?" 

"Nothing  for  me,"  said  Stella,  quietly. 


Stelltfs  Fortune.  163 

She  had  taken  her  seat  at  a  little  distance,  and  was  sit- 
ting, looking  out  of  the  window,  lost  in  thought. 

"Then  I  will  go,"  said  Sir  Richard. 

And  he  went  toward  the  window  with  his  hand  out- 
stretched. 

Mrs.  Newton  turned  to  go  out  of  the  room,  not  to  be  in 
the  way,  as  she  would  have  expressed  it,  but  their  parting 
was  no  more  affectionate  than  their  meeting;  indeed,  it 
was  not  their  last  word,  for  Sir  Richard,  as  he  shook 
hands  with  Mrs.  Newton,  said,  suddenly,  and  as  if  he 
had  barely  remembered  it: 

"By  the  way,  I  have  come — like  a  tax  collector — for  a 
short  call  on  business.  I  want  your  signature  to  a  small 
document,  my  dear  madam." 

Mrs.  Newton  smiled  to  express  her  willingness  to  sign 
anything  in  obedience  to  Sir  Richard's  mandate. 

"What  is  it,  my  dear  Richard  ?" 

"A  memorandum — >a  mere  form — authorizes  Lord 
Marmion  to  make  a  transfer  of  money  to  me — a  matter 
of  business — dear  Stella's.  I  am  afraid  you  would  not 
understand  it  if  I  endeavored  to  explain  it.  I  may  say, 
though,  that  Stella's  income  will  be  increased  some 
eight  hundred  a  year  by  it." 

And  he  smiled  benevolently  and  affectionately  over  at 
Stella,  who  had  relapsed  into  her  cold  impassibility. 

"How  very  kind  of  you !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Newton. 

"Dear  Richard,  you  are  always  so  thoughtful.  Stella, 
do  you  hear  what  Richard  has  done  for  you?" 

"No,"  said  Stella,  rising,  and  advancing  to  the  table. 
Sir  Richard  explained — if  the  broken  statement  could  be 
called  an  explanation — over  again,  and  Stella  smiled 
wearily. 

She  hated  the  money,  every  doit  of  it. 

Had  it  not  tempted  a  once  noble  heart — for  she  could 
not  believe  it  to  have  been  always  vile — to  dishonor? 

"Indeed,"  she  said,  "it  is  very  kind  of  you,  but  I  am 
afraid  you  have  taken  more  trouble  than  the  results  will 
repay.  I  have  more  money  than  I  want.  I  do  not  see 
the  use  of  eight  hundred  a  year  more." 

Sir  Richard  smiled,  as  much  as  to  say:  "Noble,  high- 
minded  girl !"  But  smiled  at  Mrs.  Newton  more  wisely. 

"Eight  hundred  is  worth  having,  though,  and  I  shall 
save  this  to  you  by  taking  charge  of  the  money.  I  have 


164  Stellcts  Fortune. 

so  many  ways  of  investing  it.  But  I  must  not  keep  you, 
I  am  quite  anxious  for  you  to  get  into  the  air;  so  will 
you  sign  ?"  And  he  spread  out  a  paper  on  the  table. 

Mrs.  Newton  took  up  the  pen,  and,  absolutely  without 
glancing1  at  the  matter  under  which  she  was  about  to  put 
her  name,  was  commencing  to  write  when  Sir  Richard 
stopped  her. 

"My  dear  madam,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head  with  a 
grave,  reproachful  smile:  "Never  sign  a  paper  without 
knowing  what  you  attest !  Read  it,  please." 

Mrs.  Newton  pouted. 

"How  ridiculous — as  if  it  mattered.  Well,  I  have  read 
h,  and  I  am  none  the  wiser.  There !"  and  she  wrote  her 
name. 

Sir  Richard  carefully  blotted  the  line,  folded  the  paper 
and  replaced  it  in  his  pocketbook,  then,  as  the  ladies 
were  quite  ready  and  the  carriage  waiting,  he  placed 
them  in  their  seats,  and  waited  on  the  pavement  with  his 
hat  raised  until  they  had  been  driven  off. 

Then  he  turned  and  made,  with  his  quick,  firm  step, 
for  his  own  house. 

Though  it  was  very  hot  outside,  it  was  deliciously  cool 
in  Sir  Richard's  private  counting  house,  with  its  green 
jalousies  and  improved  patent  ventilators,  and  it  was 
with  quite  a  feeling  of  relief  that  the  great  man  seated 
himself  at  his  table.  It  was  with  an  expression  which 
signified  a  more  intense  satisfaction  that  he  took  the 
paper  Mrs.  Newton  had  signed  from  his  pocket  and 
spread  it  out  before  him ;  and  the  expression  lasted  some 
minutes,  indeed,  until  a  knock  at  the  door  announced  a 
visitor. 

It  was  Mr.  Dewlap,  grave,  sedate,  and  as  respectfully 
solemn  as  ever. 

Without  a  word  beyond  the  respectful  "Good-morn- 
ing, Sir  Richard,"  he  laid  a  paper  upon  the  table. 

Sir  Richard  took  it  up,  considered  with  calm  regard 
for  a  few  minutes,  and  looked  up,  with  a  smile,  which 
Mr.  Dewlap  so  little  expected  that  he  started. 

"It  is  as  bad  as  that,  Dewlap,  is  it?"  he  said.  "Well, 
we  have  done  our  best,  have  we  not?  You  have,  I  am 
sure,  and  so  have  I.  It  is  a  great  pity,  a  great  pity !  We 


Stelltfs  Fortune.  165 

snail  drag  a  great  many  down  with  us,  for  we  have  won 
confidence  during  the  panic,  and  a  lot  of  money  is  in  our 
hands.  A  great  pity!  But  it  is  inevitable,  and  a  mere 
question  of  time.  How  long  shall  we  say?" 

"A  month,  two — it  all  depends,  Sir  Richard,"  replied 
the  managing  man,  with  resigned  sorrow. 

"It  all  depends,  as  you  say,"  said  Sir  Richard,  with  a 
strange  smile.  "Well,  I  can  depend  upon  you ;  you  will 
keep  quiet?" 

"As  the  grave,"  said  Mr.  Dewlap. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Sir  Richard,  and — wonderful  con- 
descension ! — he  held  out  his  fine,  white  hand. 

Mr.  Dewlap,  justly  sensible  of  such  amiability, 
grasped  it  respectfully,  and,  as  Sir  Richard  gave  him  a 
friendly  but  perfectly  calm  "good-morning,"  took  his  de- 
parture. 

Scarcely  had  he  gone  than  a  servant  announced  Lord 
Marmion. 

"My  dear  fellow!  how  do  you  do?"  exclaimed  the 
young  man.  "Here  I  am  again,  on  business  too,  but  for 
the  last  time,  I  hope.  I  have  come  to  wind  up  the  mat- 
ter, and  have  brought  the  cash.  You  wanted  it  in  good 
metal  and  paper,  you  know !"  And  he  laughed  a  trusting, 
light-hearted  laugh  in  which  Sir  Richard  joined  with 
open-hearted  mirth. 

"Here  is  the  paper,"  he  said,  taking  up  the  memoran- 
dum which  Mrs.  Newton  had  signed.  "It  was  scarcely 
necessary,  but  still  with  such  a  large  amount  every  form 
should  be  used." 

"All  right,"  said  Lord  Marmion.  "My  man  is  outside 
— shall  I  call  him?"  And  without  waiting  for  an  an- 
swer he  called  to  some  one  who  was  waiting  outside  the 
door. 

A  clerk — either  a  banker's  or  a  lawyer's — entered  and 
placed  a  bag  upon  the  table. 

Sir  Richard  offered  him  a  glass,  which  he  drank  with 
great  respect,  and  then  was  ushered  out. 

"There's  the  money,"  said  Lord  Marmion;  "a  great 
sum,  Wildfang!" 

"It  is,  and  a  great  trust !" 

"Yes,  but  not  too  great  for  a  future  husband,  you 
know,"  said  his  lordship,  laughing. 


366  Stella's  Fortune. 

And  again  Sir  Richard  joined  in. 

Then  he  seated  himself  at  a  table  and  wrote  out  an  ac- 
knowledgment. 

"Another  form,"  he  said,  handing  it  to  Lord  Marmion. 
"Take  care  of  it." 

"I  will,"  said  his  lordship,  "I  feel  quite  like  a  business 
man.  Now  give  me  a  glass  of  wine,  and  I'll  trot  off. 
I'm  going  to  Richmond — will  you  come?  A  little  water 
party." 

"No,  thanks,"  replied  Sir  Richard,  toying  as  he  spoke 
with  the  paper  which  Mr.  Dewlap  had  left.  "I  am  going 
down  to  Heavithorne  tomorrow,  and  I  must  be  busy  to- 
night." 

"Oh,  you  business  men!  You  are  wonderful  people," 
said  his  lordship,  as  he  drank  his  sherry.  "Well,  good- 
by.  How  much  do  you  think  Stella  will  get  a  year  by 
this  transaction?" 

"About  eight  hundred  pounds — more  or  less,"  said  Sir 
Richard,  as  he  shook  hands. 

Then,  with  another  genial,  hearty  good-by,  the  young 
lord  also  departed,  and  Sir  Richard  was  left  alone. 

He  locked  the  door,  and  returning  to  the  table,  looked 
down  at  the  bag  with  a  smile  deep  and  profound. 

Then  he  took  up  the  bag,  and  opening  it  turned  out  a 
mass  of  bank  notes  and  coin. 

With  the  same  smile  he  set  to  work  and  counted  out  the 
whole — to  the  last  sovereign — then  replaced  it  in  the  bag 
and  walked  with  it  to  a  safe  at  the  end  of  the  room. 

He  unlocked  the  safe,  carefully  deposited  the  bag  in  & 
remote  corner,  and  looked  at  it  with  the  same  smile  of 
satisfaction. 

"A  nest  egg !"  he  said  at  last. 

Then  he  closed  the  safe  slowly,  and  as  slowly  locked  it 
The  nest  egg  was  Stella's  fortune! 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

AT  THE  WICKET  GATE. 

My  one  ewe  lamb,  my  son! 

Oh,  that  the  angels  did  not  need  thee 

In  the  celestial  sky,  but  for  another  reason  yet 

Would  let  thee  shine  on  earthl 

The  summer  which  glorified  Grosvenor  Square  and 
Park  had  brightened  in  some  degree  the  squalor  of  Para- 
dise Alley. 

Number  two,  in  especial,  looked  all  the  better  for  it,  and 
the  canary  did  his  best  to  prove  his  masculine  gender  by 
chirping  recklessly  whenever  a  struggling  sunbeam  shone 
across  the  bars  of  his  dingy  brass  cage. 

The  months  which  had  brought  growth  to  the  year  had 
also  done  something  in  the  way  of  enlargement  for  Sam 
Growl's  Christmas  Snowdrop ;  and  as  Sam  was  wont  to 
declare  to  any  one— or  no  one  if  he  happened  to  be  alone 
— the  little  fellow  promised,  if  fate  were  kind  to  him,  to 
be  a  man. 

If  Fate  proved  kind! 

Something  in  the  shape  of  improvement  had  fallen 
upon  Sam  himself  in  the  six  months  which  had  elapsed 
since  that  merry  Christmas  Eve,  and  the  cause  was  pal- 
pable. 

There  was  less  of  ruggedness  in  his  grim,  wrinkled  face 
and  less  of  dirt  upon  his  hands. 

The  hunchback's  voice,  which  a  neighbor  had  once 
likened  to  a  hurdy-gurdy  out  of  tune,  was  softened  and 
toned  down  to  a  kindly  growl,  which  at  times  rose  to  a 
chuckling  falsetto,  and  about  the  whole  of  the  distorted, 
misshapen  figure  had  grown  a  something  at  variance  with 
the  old,  reckless  untidiness  and  a  marked  sign  of  change 
of  an  object  in  life. 

There  was  not  much  poetry  in  Paradise  Alley.    It  was 

161 


168  Stella's  Fortune. 

not  a  locality  favorable  to  the  full  development  of  the 
finer  sensibilities ;  but  few  of  the  dwellers  in  the  dark, 
dirty,  squalid  corner  but  felt  a  touch  of  something  like 
sympathy  when  they  saw  old  Sam  trudge  out  with  his 
precious  child  in  his  bosom  or  hanging  on  to  his  hand, 
and  throughout  the  alley  from  end  to  end  there  was  not 
one  who  would  have  dared  to  look  surly  at  the  mite  while 
his  hunchback  guardian  was  near  to  see. 

And  they  saw  him  only  when  he  was  out.  Had  they 
seen  him  at  home,  lighting  up  the  little  room — as  he  lit 
up  the  old  man's  heart — playing  about  the  grotesque  fig- 
ure as  it  bent  over  its  work;  had  they  heard  his  prattle, 
and  the  lively  falsetto  which  it  provoked  from  Sam,  the 
Paradise  Alleyites  might  have  been  all  the  better  for  it, 
and  perhaps — who  knows  ?  for  example  is  more  effective 
than  precept — have  loved  their  own  little  ones  more 
heartily. 

Yes,  Sam  had  an  object  in  life,  a  something  to  live  for, 
but  it  made  his  life  not  only  sweet  to  him,  but  awful ! 

Often,  as  the  old  man  sat  looking  at  the  child  as  it 
played  beside  him,  or  sat  at  his  knee  with  its  golden  head 
resting  peacefully  against  the  hard,  labor-stained  waist- 
coat, he  would  think : 

"If  I  was  to  die !    Ah !  what  would  become  of  him?" 

And  he  would  snatch  the  precious  blessing  to  his  heart 
and  wipe  away — well,  a  speck  of  leather  dust  which  had 
flown  in  his  eye. 

They  were  all  the  world  to  each  other. 

And  it  had  occurred  to  Sam  that  his  Snowdrop  might 
feel  the  want  of  childish  companionship,  and  his  heart 
smote  him  so  fully  that  it  nerved  him  to  speak. 

"Snow,"  he  said,  falteringly,  in  that  strange,  half 
mature  and  half  infantile,  in  which  he  always  addressed 
the  child,  and  which  the  mite  seemed  to  fully  understand, 
"Snow,  it  occurs  to  me,  quite  promiscuous,  that  maybe 
you'd  like  a  playmate  or  two.  If  so  be  as  I'm  right,  I 
takes  it  unkind  of  you  not  to  mention  it!"  and  he  shook 
his  head  solemnly. 

The  little  fellow  climbed  up  to  his  knee  and  fixed  a 
pair  of  bright  blue  eyes  thoughtfully  upon  the  old  man's 
small  ones. 


Stelltfs  Fortune.  169 

"If  so  be  as  you  should,"  growled  the  old  man,  "why, 
we'll  get  a  few.  You  shall  have  as  many  as  you  likes ;  1 
knows  there's  plenty  of  'em  in  the  alley !  We'll  pick  out 
the  cleanest  and  have  a  nice  spin.  Puss  in  boots,  hop- 
scotch, Tom  Tiddler's  ground,  and — and  all  them  sort  of 
games.  What  do  you  say,  Snow  ?" 

"E'es,"  chirped  the  little  fellow,  with  a  rather  doubt- 
ful nod,  and  Sam,  smothering  a  wistful  sigh,  took  him 
the  next  morning  into  the  middle  of  the  alley  and  quietly 
introduced  him  in  child  fashion  to  a  group  of  mites. 

Then  he  retreated  to  the  window  and  watched  with 
all  his  heart  in  his  eyes. 

The  child  played  at  first  shyly,  but  still  with  infantile 
glee,  until,  in  a  burst  of  crowing,  he  happened  to  glance 
at  the  window  and  saw  old  Father  Sam's  lonely,  sorrow- 
ful face  before  the  old  man  could  hide  it  behind  the 
curtain. 

In  an  instant  he  threw  down  the  ball,  and,  quitting  his 
companions,  toddled  painfully  up  the  steps,  hammered  at 
the  door  with  his  tiny  fist,  and,  on  Sam's  opening  it,  held 
out  his  arms  to  be  taken  up. 

The  next  morning  Sam  silently  took  him  out  again, 
but  the  child's  gentle  heart  had  read  and  fully  understood 
the  meaning  of  the  lonely  old  face  at  the  window,  and 
he  hurried  to  Sam  as  soon  as  the  hunchback  had  put  him 
down,  and,  in  his  childish  treble,  said : 

"No,  p'ay  with  old  Father  Sam." 

So  Sam  bore  him  back,  and,  mad  with  delight — which 
he  hid  over  the  old  boot  he  was  mending — was  the  child's 
only  playmate  once  more. 

Then  came  the  summer,  and  that  heat  that  Mrs. 
Newton  had  declared  was  unbearable  in  her  cool  draw- 
ing rooms  and  boudoirs. 

In  Paradise  Alley  she  would  have  found  a  difficulty 
in  discovering  some  word  by  which  to  describe  it. 

The  pavement  was  hot,  the  air  was  stifling,  the  canary 
languished  in  his  cage  and  gave  up  all  hope  of  ever 
proving  his  sex,  and  the  child — little  Snowdrop?  Like 
the  snowdrop  it  began  to  fade  and  droop  in  the  heat,  and 
the  old  man  grew  terrified  when,  on  one  of  the  hottest 
days,  the  little  one  lay  in  his  arms  white  and  still,  with 


I7O  Stella's  Fortune. 

a  peaceful,  listless  smile  in  the  eyes  turned  lovingly  to  his. 

Tremblingly  he  pressed  the  boy  to  him,  calling  him  by 
his  name  in  tones  that  struggled  vainly  for  calm. 

"Snowdrop,  my  little  Snowdrop!  what's  the  matter? 
You — you  are  not  in  any  pain  ?  Open  your  eyes  and  look 
at  old  Father  Sam !  Just  one  look !" 

'"'  'Nodrop  very  tired,  old  father !"  he  lisped,  with  a 
preternaturally  grave  shake  of  the  head. 

"Tired — of  course  you  are,"  said  old  Sam,  glancing 
helplessly  at  the  window,  through  which  the  sun  was  beat- 
ing upon  the  curtains.  "Every  decent  person,  leave  alone 
a  angel  child,  is  tired  in  such  weather.  It's  only  old 
chaps  like  myself  as  keeps  up,  owdacious  villains  as  we 
are!"  and,  hating  his  own  strength,  he  shut  his  teeth 
hard.  "My  precious  darling  will  go  into  the  park " 

"No,  not  the  park — me  tired  of  the  park,"  said  the 
child,  in  a  whisper.  "Me  stay  here  and  go  to  sleep."  And 
nestling  closer  to  the  pitiful  breast,  he  closed  his  eyes. 

Old  Sam  was  in  mortal  terror.  What  was  he  to  do 
if  the  child  fell  ill? 

There  had  been  several  deaths  of  fever  in  the  alley. 
Perhaps  his  Snowdrop ! — the  thought  was  too  horrible, 
too  appalling,  to  be  endured  quietly. 

The  old  man,  without  his  hat,  and  with  his  leathern 
apron  "till  around  him,  hurried  carefully  into  the  street  to 
the  nearest  doctor's,  and,  trembling  like  a  leaf,  rang  the 
bell. 

It  was  some  time  before  the  gentlemanly  assistant 
would  admit  him,  but  Sam  threatened  to  admit  himself 
and  force  his  way  if  he  were  not  allowed  to  enter  quietly, 
and  so  obtain  an  audience. 

The  doctor — an  old  man,  far  too  used  to  such  sights 
to  feel  more  than  professional  sympathy — looked  at  the 
child,  and  back  at  the  old  man. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Sam,  hoarsely,  almost  fiercely. 
"Can't  you  speak?  What's  the  use  of  a  doctor  if  he  can't 
do  nothing  more'n  look  at  him?  I  can  do  that,  and  I'm 
an  ignorant,  cobbling  old  idiot !  Do  something  for  him — 
give  him  something !  I  can  pay  for  it — I'm  strong — look 
at  me! — and  I  can  work  for  him.  Give  him  something! 
Heaven,  give  him  something!" 


Stella's  Fortune.  171 

The  doctor  laid  his  hand  upon  the  shaking,  misshapen 
shoulder. 

"Hush,  my  good  fellow!"  he  said.  "Do  not  distress 
yourself!  The  child  is  very  ill,  but  not  dying.  Medi- 
cine— physic  is  no  use.  The  medicine  he  wants  is  fresh 
air.  The  country — new  milk — buttercups  and  daisies. 
You  understand?" 

Old  Sam  nodded  eagerly,  his  eyes  sparkling  with  hope. 

*T  know!  I'll  take  him!  I'll  cross  the  sea  with  him— 
go  anywhere  to  serve  him!  Doctor,  I  can't — I  can't  let 
him  die!" 

And  his  whisper  sank  so  low  that  the  words  were  rather 
breathed  than  spoken. 

"No,  no,"  said  the  doctor,  "don't  be  afraid,  my  good 
man.  Take  him  into  the  country  at  once.  He's  a  fine 
little  fellow,  but  delicate.  Not  your  child,  eh?  Your 
daughter's?  She  was  delicate,  wasn't  she?  Exposed  to 
the  air,  eh?" 

The  old  man  nodded,  with  a  fearful  bitterness. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  between  his  shut  teeth,  "she  was  deli- 
cate !  She  was  exposed  to  the  air."  And  laying  half  a 
sovereign  down  upon  the  table  he  covered  the  child  up 
in  his  coat  and  left  the  room. 

"Take  him  into  the  country !"  he  murmured,  as  he  hur- 
ried home.  "Yes,  yes;  new  milk,  flowers!  He  shall 
have  'em — he  shall  have  'em!  Old  Sam  shall  get  'em 
for  him!  The  country — where  is  the  country?" 

And  he  stopped  short  and  looked  helplessly  around  him. 

Reader,  there  are  hundreds  of  the  poor  who  could  put 
the  same  question  with  perfect  seriousness. 

Then  there  flashed  upon  him  the  memory  of  the  visit 
of  the  gentleman  who  had  spoken  so  kindly  to  him  and 
admired  the  boy. 

He  had  spoken  of  the  country — had  asked  him  to  bring 
his  Snowdrop  down  to  see  his  picture — had  left  the  ad- 
dress. 

With  fast  beating  heart  the  old  man  laid  the  child  upon 
its  little  bed  and  searched  for  the  paper. 

When  he  had  found  it  he  spelt  out  the  address  letter 
by  letter,  carefully  folded  the  paper,  and  stuck  it  in  his 
waistcoat  pocket,  and,  with  trembling,  eager  fingers,  did 


172  Stellcts  Fortune. 

up  his  necessaries  for  the  journey  in  a  red  pocket  hand- 
kerchief. 

Then  lie  wrapped  up  the  child  tightly,  and  carefully, 
and,  locking  the  door  of  the  room  after  him,  sallied  out 
into  the  street, 

To  the  first  policeman  he  met  he  showed  the  slip  of  pa- 
per, and  hungrily  listened  to  his  direction  how  to  reach 
the  place  named  in  it,  then,  walking  with  the  utmost  care 
of  the  child's  comfort,  reached  the  station,  and,  all  trem- 
bling with  love's  fear,  started  for  Heavithorne. 

It  was  night  when  the  lodge  keeper — who  told  the 
story  in  the  evening  in  the  village  ale  house  for  the  re- 
mainder of  his  life — locking  up  the  park  gate,  saw  a 
bent,  misshapen  figure  with  something  bulging  out  of  the 
breast  of  his  coat,  hurrying  down  the  path,  and  looking 
from  one  side  to  the  other  with  wistful,  eager  eyes. 

It  was  Sam,  with  his  precious  burden,  and  he  stopped 
at  the  gate,  and,  looking  at  the  keeper  with  eager  eyes, 
produced  the  piece  of  paper,  now  thumb-marked  and 
battered. 

"Can  you  tell  me  where  that  place  is?    Quick  1" 

"Yes,"  said  the  man,  "you're  just  in  time  to  save  me 
a  trot  out  o'  the  lodge  again.  That's  the  house  down 
yonder.  But  who'e  do  you  want?5* 

"That's  my  business,"  retorted  the  old  man,  with  jeal- 
ous fierceness. 

Then,  with  a  hurried  "Thank  ye"  and  a  glance  at  his 
burden,  he  hurried  on,  the  moon  lighting  his  path  and 
shining  on  his  gnarled,  wrinkled  face  as  he  went 

"Close  there  now,"  he  murmured,  with  his  head  bent 
down  to  his  breast.  "Close  there  now,  Snow !  Keep  up 
your  heart,  my  precious!  We'll  soon  be  with  the  kind 
gentleman.  He'll  take  care  o'  you !  Speak  to  me,  only  a 
word — Snow — only  a  word  1" 

"Father  Sam !"  murmured  the  little  fellow. 

The  old  man  choked  down  a  sob  and  hurried  on  faster 
than  ever. 

A  turn  of  the  path  and  he  was  at  the  wicket  gate. 

Another  minute  and  he  was  through  it,  and  standing 
like  a  stone — but  for  the  heavy  moan  of  disappointment 
and  despair  which  burst  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart  as 


Stelkts  Fortune.  173 

his  eyes  rested  upon  the  lifeless  house  and  the  deserted 
garden. 

"Empty  1"  he  moaned.    "Gone !   Oh,  Snow !  Snow !" 

In  his  helplessness  his  head  sank  upon  his  breast  and  he 
walked  on  toward  the  house  as  if  in  a  dream. 

The  child  put  out  his  little  hand  and  made  a  peephole 
for  itself. 

"Pretty!  pretty!"  he  murmured,  looking  up  at  the 
house,  upon  which  the  moon  was  shining  brightly. 

"Oh,  father,  stop  here  with  Snow !" 

Old  Sam  looked  down  at  him  with  a  trembling  lip. 

The  night  was  warm,  the  child  well  wrapped  up.  There 
was  no  near  shelter  that  he  knew  of;  he  might  wander 
all  night  and  find  no  place  for  him. 

He  looked  around,  undecided  still,  until  his  eyes  fell 
upon  a  little  summerhouse  in  the  corner  of  the  shrub- 
bery, and  then  he  decided. 

Limping  up  to  it — for  he  was  footsore  and  lamed  by 
the  hot  roads — he  crawled  in,  uncovered  the  child,  while 
he  gave  it  a  draught  of  milk  from  a  bottle,  and  then,  cov- 
ering it  up  again,  sat  silent  and  motionless  with  its  warm, 
fragile  form  pressed  to  him. 

While  he  sat,  looking  up  at  the  moon  with  an  inaudible 
prayer  for  the  child  ever  forming  itself  on  his  lips,  he 
heard  a  noise  near  him,  and,  looking  out,  saw  a  figure 
closely  muffled  stealing  through  the  neglected  garden. 


CHAPTER  XXV, 

A  HAUNTED   MAN. 

Guilt  ever  at  hia  footsteps  paced 
And  kept  his  conscience  horrible, 
A  shadow  moved  him  to  the  soul 
And   fear   claimed   him   for   its   own. 

Sir  Richard,  as  he  had  informed  Lord  Marmion  that 
he  should  be,  was  very  busy  with  ledger  and  daybook  that 
evening,  and  worked  at  a  strange  kind  of  work  late  into 
the  night. 

Sir  Richard,  in  all  his  deeds,  whether  of  good  or  bad- 
he  did  some  good  ones  for  a  far-sighted  purpose,  occa- 
sionally— was  always  calm  and  gentlemanly. 

To-night  he  was  making  up  false  accounts  and  state- 
ments to  defraud  and  mislead  clever  men ;  but  though  the 
task  required  the  acumen  and  astuteness  of  an  artful 
brain,  and  was  of  a  nature  deeply  criminal,  Sir  Richard's 
face  was  placidly  smooth  and  the  parting  of  his  hair  un- 
ruffled. 

Had  he  been  going  to  commit  a  murder,  he  would  have 
set  about  it  with  a  complete  avoidance  of  excitement, 
and  would  have  slain  his  victim  in  a  quiet,  graceful,  and 
gentlemanly  manner. 

In  the  morning  he  sallied  into  the  park  and  chatted 
with  charming  affability  for  so  great  and  wealthy  a  man 
with  thoughtless  young  ladies  and  empty-headed  young 
men,  some  of  whose  money  he  had  that  night  before  been 
cleverly  disposing  of  in  his  false  account  books;  and  in 
the  afternoon  he  started  for  the  Box  alone,  and  carrying 
a  leather  bag.  It  was  a  small  bag,  and  did  not  look  par- 
ticularly heavy  as  he  carried  it. 

But  it  was  heavy,  notwithstanding  that  he  swung  it 
occasionally  with  a  careless  "There's  nothing  in  it"  sort 
of  air,  and  never  put  it  out  of  his  hand  for  a  minute, 
though  obsequious  porters  and  servants  requested  per- 

M* 


Stella? s  Fortune.  175 

rfiission  to  relieve  him  of  it.  He  still  clung  to  it  while 
he  sat  in  the  study  in  the  Box  and  waited,  smoking  a  cigar 
and  sipping  claret  until  the  night  had  quite  fallen. 

And  when  he  stole  out  by  the  doorway  through  which 
Stephen  Hargrave  had  so  often  entered,  closely  muffled, 
he  still  had  the  bag  in  his  hand. 

Even  when  he  caught  up  a  spade  which  was  leaning 
just  outside  against  the  step,  and  hid  it  under  his  coat, 
he  still  held  the  bag,  and  with  the  bag  in  his  hand  he 
stole  along — waiting  for  intervals  of  darkness  when  the 
clouds  obscured  the  moon — along  the  unfrequented  ways 
to  the  Hut. 

Arrived  there,  he  crossed  the  garden  and  entered  the 
shrubbery. 

There  he  stood  for  a  while,  listening  intently  and  look- 
ing round  him  with  keen  and  still  unexcited  eyes. 

At  last,  fully  assured  that  no  listener  nor  spy  was  near, 
he  drew  out  his  spade,  which  was  sharpened  like  a  turf- 
cutter's,  and  neatly  cut  a  square  of  turf  under  the  laurels. 

This  he  laid  carefully  aside,  and  proceeded  to  dig, 
working  quietly  and  deftly,  like  one  acquainted  with  the 
use  of  the  spade,  though  in  all  probability  it  was  the  first 
time  he  had  ever  had  the  tool  in  his  hand. 

He  worked  steadily,  pausing  occasionally  to  listen,  un- 
til a  deep  hole  lay  beneath  him. 

Then  he  took  up  the  precious  bag,  lowered  it  gently  and 
tenderly  into  its  grave,  and  proceeded  to  fill  in  the  mold. 

When  that  part  of  his  task  was  finished  he  replaced  the 
turf,  flattened  it  with  the  spade,  straightened  his  back 
and  smiled  down  at  his  work  accomplished — smiled  down 
as  if  he  could  see  through  the  earth  the  bright  sovereigns 
and  the  crisp  notes  of  Stella's  fortune. 

In  that  moment  of  his  rest  a  slight  noise  caused  him  to 
swerve  on  -one  side  as  if  a  bullet  had  struck  him. 

It  was  the  feeble  cry  of  a  child. 

He  looked  around  and  listened  with  a  scared  look  upon 
his  face,  such  as  it  had  worn  when  he  had  heard  a  servant 
at  the  Vale  call  "Lucy,"  such  as  it  wore  when  he  woke 
at  nights  from  his  dreams. 

Then  he  smiled,  shook  his  head  with  a  contemptuous 
frown  at  his  own  foolish  fancy ;  but  nevertheless  set  down 


176  Stella's  Fortune. 

his  spade,  and  advanced  cautiously  farther  into  the  shrub- 
bery. 

At  his  first  step  the  moon  was  obscured,  the  shrubbery 
was  dark. 

A  minute  after,  by  the  time  he  had  got  into  the  middle 
of  the  little  plantation,  the  moon  broke  forth  again,  and 
poured  down  before  him.  He  raised  his  eyes  as  some- 
thing white  seemed  to  have  sprung  into  his  path,  and  fell 
back  with  a  guttural  cry  of  horror. 

Before  him — risen  from  the  grave — were  the  ghosts  of 
the  woman  and  child  who  had  stood  before  him  that  cold, 
bitter  Christmas  Eve,  when  he  had  spurned  them  from 
him  with  a  cruel  denial  and  a  crueler  mockery  of  charity. 

Yes,  horrible  to  see,  there  they  stood!  In  the  same 
attitude.  The  ghost  of  the  woman  was  holding  out  to 
him  the  ghost  of  the  child. 

His  face  went  livid,  his  eyes  seemed  to  start  from  their 
sockets.  His  tongue  clove  to  the  roof  of  his  mouth ;  and 
that  fear  which  hurls  reason  from  its  throne  had  taken 
possession  of  his  bad,  unscrupulous  soul. 

For  a  moment  the  earth  spun  around  him  in  the  moon- 
light, then,  with  a  mighty  effort,  he  turned  and  fled. 

With  the  speed  of  a  man  pursued  by  the  demons  of 
a  guilty  conscience,  he  bore  to  the  wicket  gate,  opened  it 
and  dashed  against  something! — something  in  the  shape 
of  a  man,  deformed  enough  to  add  to  his  terror — some- 
thing that  went  down  before  his  guilty  flight  like  a 
feather. 

He  stopped  for  a  moment,  but  the  next  a  child's  wail 
broke  the  stillness,  and  once  more  he  fled — livid  with  feat 
and  almost  mad. 


CHAPTER  XXVL 
"TO  LUCY." 

Some  thirty  minutes  after  Sir  Richard's  guilty  flight 
from  the  garden  of  the  Hut  a  man  was  striding  moodily 
across  the  park. 

His  head  was  bent  upon  his  breast,  his  hands  thrust 
into  a  loose  and  well-nigh  ragged  cloak,  his  whole  appear- 
ance unprepossessing  and  dejected. 

For  the  most  part  he  walked  on,  looking  neither  to  the 
right  nor  to  the  left,  but  when  he  came  opposite  the  Hut 
he  stopped  and  looked  up  at  it  with  a  face  of  gloomy 
reverie,  half  bitter,  half  remorseful. 

But  the  pause  was  only  one  of  a  few  minutes,  and  he 
turned  away  to  the  left,  traversing  a  large  field  with  the 
same  purposeless,  restless  gait  and  the  same  preoccupied, 
morose  bearing. 

Presently,  however,  he  came  toward  an  outhouse  and 
was  about  to  turn  in  under  its  low  doorway,  perhaps  for 
rest  and  shelter,  when  a  voice  from  within  brought  him  to 
a  halt,  and,  with  a  stealthy  gesture,  he  drew  away  from 
the  door  to  the  side,  removed  his  hat,  and  peered  through 
one  of  the  numerous  crevices  in  the  old  woodwork. 

Within  the  shed  was  an  old  man  and  a  child ;  the  latter 
was  lying  on  a  heap  of  straw,  looking  up  into  the  face 
of  the  old  man  bending  over  him,  and  the  unseen  watcher 
saw  by  the  light  of  the  moonlight,  which  streamed 
through  the  doorway  upon  both  figures,  that  the  angel  of 
death  was  waiting  to  bear  the  little  one  away  to  his 
eternal  home. 

The  voice  he  had  heard  was  the  child's,  and  in  a  weak 
little  baby  tone  it  spoke  again. 

"Father  Sam,  when  shall  we  turn  to  the  country  and 
see  all  the  horses  and  the  trees  and  the  birds?  'Tismas 
w  very  tired  and  s'eepy." 


178  Stella's  Fortune, 

"Very  soon,  now,  my  pretty  one,"  muttered  the  old 
tnan,  turning  his  head  away  and  setting  his  face  as  if  to 
force  the  tears  back;  "very  soon  now,  Christmas,  very 
soon." 

"Very  soon — are  you  sure,  Father  Sam  ?"  muttered  the 
child.  "I'm  so  glad,  so  glad.  Don't  you  feel  sleepy, 
Father  Sam  ?  You  look  tired — so  very  tired,  When  we 
get  to  the  pretty  country  you  will  go  to  sleep,  won't  you  ? 
You  won't  leave  me,  Father  Sam,  will  you?" 

"No,  I  won't  leave  you,  my  Snowdrop,"  muttered  the 
old  man,  brokenly.  "Try  and  go  to  sleep,  Christmas; 
lean  your  head  upon  my  arm  and  shut  your  eyes.  Do 
you  feel  very  tired?" 

"Oh,  very,  very  tired,  Father  Sam,"  lisped  the  little  one. 
"Me  won't  go  to  sleep,  though,  if  you  won't  promise  to 
wake  me  when  we  come  to  the  country.  I  want  to  see  the 
birds  and  the  flowers  you  told  me  about.  I  want  to  see 
them  when  you  do,  Father  Sam,  You'll  wake  me,  won't 
you?" 

"Yes,  I'll  wake  you,  Christmas,"  said  the  old  man,  rock- 
ing to  and  fro. 

"How  twiet  it  is,"  lisped  the  boy.  "Father  Sam,  I  wish 
the  canary  was  here,  it  seems  so  lonely.  Speak  to  Tis- 
mas,  Father  Sam.  Tell  him  about  the  country,  about  the 
birds  and  the  trees  we  are  going  to  see.  I  don't  like  it  to 
be  so  twiet.  Speak  to  me,  Father  Sam  1" 

The  old  man  cleared  his  throat. 

"Want  to  hear  about  the  country,  Christy?"  he  said, 
hoarsely.  "We're  in  the  country  now.  Look,  there's 
some  trees,  and  to-morrow  we  shall  see  the  birds." 

"To-morrow !"  broke  in  the  boy,  faintly.  "Let  me  see 
them  now.  P'raps  I  shan't  wake  in  the  morning,  Father 
Sam.  Let  me  see  the  birdies  now." 

"The  birds  are  all  gone  to  sleep,  Christy — all  asleep," 
said  the  old  man.  "But  look  at  the  trees;  there's  trees 
and  grass,  Christy;  that's  country,  you  know!  Look  at 
'em  and  go  to  sleep." 

The  child  shook  his  head. 

"Me  'fraid  to  go  to  sleep ;  me  'fraid  the  bad  man  comes 
and  knock  us  down.  Father  Sam,  me  'fraid  to  go  to 
s'eep.  Tismas  want  to  go  home.'* 


Stella's  Fortune.  1791 

The  old  man  groaned,  and  hushed  the  child  to  him 
with  piteous,  helpless  anguish. 

"We  can't  go  home,  Christy ;  we  are  too  far  away." 

"No,"  said  the  boy.  "Not  too  far.  Tismas  not  too 
far.  Father  Sam  take  him  home  to  his  little  bed.  'Tis- 
mas say  his  prayers  and  go  to  s'eep— he  never  hear  the 
birdies  sing." 

"Never !  Oh,  yes,  you  will,  my  lamb,  to-morrow,"  said 
the  old  man,  huskily.  "Go  to  sleep,  my  angel." 

The  child  sighed. 

"Yes,  'Tismas  go  to  sleep  now,  Father  Sam,  and  if 
'Tismas  doesn't  wake  up  to  see  the  trees  and  the  birdies, 
Father  Sam  will  tarry  him  home  to  his  little  bed, 
won't  he?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  burst  forth  the  old  man,  "Father  Sam  will 
never  leave  his  Snowdrop,  and  Snowdrop  must  never 
leave  his  old  father — never,  never!" 

"Never,  never!"  lisped  the  child,  and,  putting  out  his 
hand,  touched  the  old  man's  face  with  a  smile  of  childish 
love.  "  'Tismas  never  leave  Father  Sam.  'Tismas  loves 
Father  Sam.  'Tismas  go  to  s'eep  now,  and  when  he 
wake  up  he  hear  the  birdies  sing — the  birdies  sing." 

The  last  words  died  away  on  his  little  pale  lips,  and 
his  bright  golden  head  sank  lower  on  the  old  man's 
breast. 

Silence,  deep  and  profound,  fell  upon  the  two. 

The  man  outside  frowned  deeply,  choked  a  sigh  with 
a  morose  cough,  and  advanced  to  the  doorway. 

The  old  man  looked  up  and  held  up  a  warning  finger. 
"Hush!  he's  asleep,"  he  said,  with  no  surprise  in  his 
voice  at  the  unexpected  appearance,  only  a  loving,  deeply 
anxious  solicitude  for  quiet. 

The  man  nodded,  stepped  slowly  and  softly  into  the 
shed,  and,  dropping  down  upon  a  broken  milking  stool, 
leaned  his  head  upon  his  hands  and  gazed  at  the  two 
figures,  old  man  and  child,  with  dreamy  abstraction. 

Half  an  hour  passed,  then  the  old  man  looked  up  with 
a  wan  smile. 

"How  sound  he  sleeps!"  he  murmured.  "He  hasn't 
moved — not  a  hinch,  Heaven  bless  him!  Hell  be  better 
when  he  wakes — better  when  he  wakes." 

Then  the  man  spoke  for  the  first  time. 


i8o  Steltfs  Fortune. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  in  a  deep,  mournful,  bitter  voice.  "He*K 
be  better  when  he  wakes." 

Something'  in  the  tone  attracted  the  old  man's  atten- 
tion, and  he  glanced  with  half-fearful  suspicion  at  the 
stranger  for  a  moment,  then  returned  to  his  slight  rocking 
of  the  child.  Another  half  hour  passed,  then  the  stranger 
rose  and  placed  a  hand  upon  the  old  man's  shoulder. 

"The  child  sleeps  soundly,"  he  said,  speaking  slowly, 
and  not  unkindly,  though  with  the  same  bitter,  mournful 
tone,  "very  soundly — «perhaps  too  soundly ;  look  at  him." 

"No,  no !"  replied  the  old  man ;  "no,  don't  disturb  him. 
He'll  be  better  when  he  wakes." 

The  man  looked  at  him  hard. 

"You  won't  disturb  him,"  he  said.  "Nothing  will  dis- 
turb the  child  again,  old  man.  Look  at  him.  He's  awake 
and  better  already." 

The  old  man  fell  to  trembling-,  and  stared  first  at  the 
child,  then  at  the  grim,  hard  face  above  him. 

At  last  the  man,  gently  for  one  with  so  rough  an  ap- 
pearance, drew  the  big  coat  aside  and  turned  the  child's 
head. 

"Look,"  he  said,  "he's  better,  much  better,  now ;  better 
than  you  an'  me  ever  will  be,  old  man." 

Old  Sam  looked,  then  rose  with  a  wild  cry  of  horror 
and  grief. 

"No,  no!"  he  cried,  in  a  shrill,  broken  voice,  "not 
dead!  not  dead !  He's  too  young  to  die !  Look  at  me — I'm 
old,  he's  young,  a  mere  babe!  Christmas!  Christmas! 
wake;  we're  in  the  country!  Wake,  my  darling!  Look  up 
at  Father  Sam !  We're  in  the  country,  with  the  trees,  the 
birds — the  birds!  He  won't  wake!  The  child's  tired — 
tired  out.  He — he " 

Then  he  paused  suddenly,  and,  bending  his  white  lips 
to  the  child's,  shuddered  and  shook. 

"You  see,"  said  the  man,  "he's  dead.  Come,  don't  take 
it  so  much  to  heart.  He's  better  off,  old  man;  they  al- 
ways are.  I've  seen  the  best  loved  of  'em  dead ;  and  I've 
learned  to  be  glad  of  it.  Come,  bear  up.  Give  me  the 
child." 

But  the  old  man  pressed  the  boy  to  his  heart  and  drew 
the  coat  jealously,  fiercely,  over  him. 

"Well,  I'll  not  part  you,"  said  the  man.    "Carry  him. 


Stella's  Fortune.  181 

if  ye  must,  and  follow  me  into  the  village.  You  can't 
stop  here." 

"No— home,  home!"  said  the  old  man,  hoarsely.  "I 
promised  to  take  him  home." 

"Where  is  it?"  asked  the  man,  eyeing  him  with  bent 
brows. 

But  old  Sam  was  demented ;  his  great  love  had  numbed 
his  reason,  and  "Home,  home!  I  promised  to  take  him 
home,"  was  all  the  answer  the  questioner  could  get. 

At  last,  despairing  of  obtaining  the  information  from 
the  bereaved  old  man,  he  turned  to  the  bundle,  and  with 
slow  movements  commenced  untying  it,  in  the  hope  of 
finding  some  clew  to  the  old  man's  destination. 

As  his  eyes  rested  on  the  bread  and  meat  and  bottle 
of  milk  which  seemed  to  be  the  only  contents  of  the  bun- 
dle, he  was  about  to  retie  it,  when  the  corner  of  an  en- 
velope lying  at  the  bottom  attracted  his  attention,  and, 
turning  the  handkerchief  upside  down  he  drew  from  it  a 
small  pile  of  letters  and  a  ring  tied  to  one  of  them. 

Grimly  he  carried  them  to  the  doorway. 

The  moon  was  obscured  at  the  moment,  but  he  struck  a 
match  and  read  the  address. 

As  he  did  so,  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  clutched  the  letter 
held  straight  out  before  him,  and  gazed  at  it  with  blanched 
face  and  staring  eyes. 

"Lucy's  name!"  he  muttered,  huskily.    "Lucy's  name!" 

Then  he  drew  himself  together,  shook  himself  as  if  he 
had  strained  his  nerves  to  go  through  a  direful  task,  and, 
with  a  jerk,  opened  the  letter 

Striking  match  after  match,  he  read,  first  one  letter, 
then  another,  his  face  growing  whiter  and  more  hardened, 
his  lips  quivering  with  some  fearful  and  suppressed  pas- 
sion. 

Then  he  came  to  the  ring  and  examined  it,  turned  it 
over  twice,  and  was  about  to  drop  it  with  the  heap  of 
letters  at  his  feet,  when  his  eyes  caught  some  inscription 
running  inside,  and  he  lit  another  match  and  read : 

"To  Lucy,  from  Richard  Wildfang." 

With  a  terrible  imprecation,  he  stared  at  the  ring,  at  the 
old  man,  at  the  child,  then  covered  his  face  with  his  hands 
and  shook  like  a  leaf  tossed  by  the  wind. 


i82  Stella's  Fortune. 

The  old  man  who  had  hitherto  regarded  him  with 
apathetic  eyes  that  scarcely  seemed  to  see  him,  now 
limped  forward  and  touched  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"Give  me  the  letters,"  he  said  huskily,  and  in  a  hollow 
voice.  "They're  no  business  of  yours.  We're  going 
home." 

The  man  started,  and,  grasping  his  arm,  led  him  to  the 
door. 

"Let  me  look  at  the  child,"  he  whispered,  hoarsely. 

The  old  man,  slowly  and  reluctantly,  uncovered  the 
peaceful  little  face. 

The  man  looked  for  a  moment,  then  turned  away  his 
face  and  groaned. 

'  Tis  Lucy's  child!   'Tis  Lucy's  child!"  he  moaned. 

"Lucy's — Lucy's,"  said  the  old  man.  "You  know 
him?" 

"Ay,"  said  the  man,  with  curt  bitterness.  "I  know  him, 
old  man.  I  knew  his  mother.  You  shall  go  home,  and 
I'll  go  with  ye.  Then  I've  work  to  do — work  to  do.  I'll 
go  with  ye — for — it's  Lucy's  child." 

Then  the  two  men — the  old  one  still  pressing  the  child 
to  his  breast — went  out  into  the  park,  silently,  taking  little 
Christmas  home. 

When  they  came  to  the  Hut  the  old  man's  grief  for  the 
first  time  broke  forth  freely. 

Wild  words  poured  from  his  lonely,  miserable  heart, 
and  wild  accusations. 

"He  killed  him !  He  killed  him !  He  struck  him  out 
of  my  hand !  He  killed  him." 

For  a  time  the  man  listened  silently,  his  hard  face  bent 
eastwards  and  fearful  in  its  expression  of  concentrated 
ferocity  and  bitterness ;  but  when  the  old  man's  words  be- 
came more  coherent  and  earnest  he  stopped  and  listened 
more  eagerly,  and  when  at  last  he  had  ekcited  an  account 
of  all  that  the  old  man  had  seen  in  the  deserted  garden 
a  gleam  of  savage  joy  and  vindicative  triumph  lit  up  his 
face,  and  he  threw  up  his  hands  as  if  they  grasped  a  sure 
and  terrible  revenge. 

"He  killed  him,"  he  said,  hoarsely.  "He  killed  her,  and 
he  killed  the  child.  Blood  for  blood !  Blood  for  blood !" 

And  as  if  the  cry  had  cleared  the  air,  and  penetrated 


Stella's  Fortune.  183 

the  luxurious  bedchamber  of  the  wealthy  and  influential 
Sir  Richard  Wildfang,  Sir  Richard  himself  stood  gazing 
in  the  glass  at  the  reflection  of  his  white,  shrinking  face 
and  quivering  lips. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

NEWS  FROM   ENGLAND. 

And  now  it  became  rumored  that  the  great  doctors  of 
the  land  had  told  Sir  Richard  Wildfang  that  he  must 
rest  for  a  while  from  his  gig-antic  labors — rest  body  and 
mind,  for,  said  they,  he  had  been  working  with  too  tight 
a  pressure  in  the  conduct  of  some  of  the  tremendous 
monetary  projects  with  which  he  had  blessed  the  com- 
mercial world. 

Sir  Richard,  smilingly  acquiescent,  went  to  Stella,  and, 
placing  himself,  as  it  were,  in  her  hands,  asked  her  in 
his  softest  and  most  musical  voice,  to  name  the  day. 

Miss  Newton  received  his  request  at  first  with  a  fear 
and  dread,  which  displayed  itself  in  visible  trembling,  but 
when  Mrs.  Newton  vehemently  showed  her  that  it  was 
her  duty  to  put  Sir  Richard  out  of  suspense,  and  reward 
him  as  his  great  merit  and  undoubted  devotion  deserved, 
Stella  regained  her  wonted  calm  and  promised  to  become 
Lady  Wildfang  three  months  hence. 

So  the  fashionable  world  buzzed  it  through  ballroom 
and  salon,  boudoir  and  conservatory,  and  the  milliners 
were  set  to  work.  Not  only  the  milliners,  but  the  build- 
ers, architects,  upholsterers  and  cabinet  makers,  for  Sir 
Richard  declared  his  intention  of  thoroughly  renovating 
and  redecorating  his  already  palatial  mansion  in  War- 
wickshire. 

The  papers  caught  up  the  news  and  inserted  gossip- 
ing little  paragraphs  relating  how  Sir  Richard  intended 
taking  his  charming  bride  the  regular  Swiss  round,  how 
he  had  just  paid  four  hundred  pounds  for  a  pair  of  car- 
riage grays,  how  he  had  said,  done  or  thought  this  and 
the  other. 

And  amid  it  all — amid  the  fussing  of  the  trades- 
people, the  chattering  of  fashionable  acquaintances — for 
Stella  had  no  friends  in  the  proper  significance  of  the 
word — and,  above  all,  with  her  mother's  perpetual  hymn 

18* 


Stella's  Fortune.  185 

•of  self-satisfaction  ever  humming  in  her  ears,  the  bride- 
elect  remained  calm,  cool,  unmoved,  as  if  she  were  not 
the  most  important  actor  in  the  coming  pageant,  and  the 
whole  affair  concerned  her  only  in  a  secondary  sense. 

What  she  felt  when  the  shades  of  night  hid  her,  as 
they  did  Sir  Richard,  from  curious  eyes,  none  knew. 

If  she  was  pale  in  the  morning,  Mrs.  Newton  put  her 
pallor  down  to  the  recurrence  of  one  of  the  headaches 
which  perpetually  tormented  her  otherwise  peculiarly 
fortunate  daughter;  she  little  guessed  that  the  pallor  was 
produced  by  tears  and  writhings  of  impotent  longing 
which  kept  Stella's  eyes  wide  open  in  the  darkness  and 
her  heart  bleeding. 


The  papers  confined  the  news,  and  they  spread  it 
abroad  even  to  the  wastes  of  the  Rocky  Mountains,  for 
in  the  hut  of  a  fur  trader,  a  trapper,  clad  in  beaver  skins, 
sat  in  that  month  of  July  idly  turning  over  the  English 
paper  which  some  friendiy  hand  had  flung  into  the  hut. 

The  hut  was  a  lone  one,  by  the  side  of  a  brawling 
stream,  and  the  trapper  looked  a  lone  man,  with  his 
rifle  beside  him,  his  bowie  knife  lying  upon  the  table  and 
his  eyes  glancing  dreamily  upon  the  paper. 

The  face  was  delicate  vhrough  all  the  lines  which  a 
great  sorrow  or  a  heavy  illness  had  graven  there,  and 
there  was  a  wistful,  careless  sadness  in  the  eyes  that  spoke 
little  of  the  daring,  rough-visaged,  rough-minded  ordi- 
nary trapper.  Through  all  the  rough  clothing  and  amidst 
the  discomfort  of  the  trapper's  hut  there  spoke  the  air 
and  the  habitation  of  a  gentleman. 

"All!  news  from  England!"  he  muttered.  "I  scarcely 
know  whether  it  is  worth  while  reading  it.  I  have  left 
the  old  country  for  good.  Why  should  I  keep  up  a  con- 
nection, even  in  thought?  A  man  does  not  carry  about 
with  him  a  picture  of  the  grave  in  which  he  has  buried 
his  heart  and  hopes.  No,  let  the  news  go,  since  I  can 
have  no  part  in  it." 

But,  nevertheless,  though  he  pushed  the  paper  aside  for 
a  moment,  and  played  with  his  bowie  knife  thoughtfully, 


186  Stellcts  Fortune. 

his  stoicism  lasted  only  a  few  moments,  and  presently  he 
took  up  the  paper  and  began  to  read  it. 

"Fashionable  gossip !"  he  muttered,  coming  to  the  col- 
umn. "That,  least  of  all,  concerns  me " 

But  before  the  words  were  clear  of  his  lips  his  face 
had  changed,  his  hands  tightened  spasmodically  upon  the 
paper,  at  which  he  stared  with  fixed  and  sorrowful  re- 
gard. 

Then  he  laid  it  down,  having  assuredly  read  enough  for 
that  day. 

"To  be  married  in  September,  to  him,  the  scheming 
scoundrel,  who  played  upon  her  and  betrayed  me!  Oh, 
Stella,  Stella!  I  would  rather  stand  beside  your  grave 
than  beside  you  on  your  wedding  day.  September,  Sep- 
tember! It  is  soon,  too  soon!  Can  she  have  forgotten 
tne  already,  or  have  they  succeeded  in  forcing  her  to 
marry  him?  No  matter;  she  believes  me  false,  will  do 
so  until  the  hour  of  her  death.  Then,  of  a  surety,  will 
her  eyes  be  opened,  or  there  is  no  justice  under  Heaven. 
September,  September!  Oh,  Stella,  Stella!" 

While  the  words  were  on  his  lips,  and  his  eyes  were 
covered  by  his  hands,  a  footstep  rang  out  on  the  oaken 
threshold  of  the  hut,  and,  looking  up,  the  trapper  saw 
a  tall,  dark  figure  standing  with  its  back  to  the  light,  re- 
garding him. 

"Your  business,  friend?"  he  said,  wearily. 

The  man  turned  his  face  slightly,  the  trapper  started, 
then  sprang  at  him — very  much  as  the  wolves  sprang 
at  himself  some  nights  when  he  lay  beside  the  stream 
watching  for  the  beaver — grasped  him  by  the  throat  and 
pinned  him  against  the  wooden  wall  of  the  hut. 

"Stephen  Hargrave!  met  at  last!" 

"Master  Louis,"  said  the  man,  with  a  deep,  hoarse 
voice,  "we've  met  at  last,  because  I've  been  seeking  ye, 
following  in  your  tracks  all  these  months.  Take  your 
hand  from  my  throat,  master,  till  I've  told  all  I've  got 
to  tell,  then  ye  can  put  your  bowie  knife  there  instead  " 

Louis  Felton's  hand  relaxed,  and  he  pointed  to  the 
stool. 

"Sit  there,  and  say  what  you've  got  to  say.    Tell  me 


Stelltfs  Fortune.  187 

one  word  that  is  false — one  word  that  I  know  to  be  un- 
true— and  I'll  shoot  you  as  I  would  a  dog!" 

So  they  stood  and  sat,  the  grim  Stephen  Hargrave  tell- 
ing the  story  of  villainy  to  the  victim  of  it,  standing  with 
his  hand  upon  his  gun. 


The  preparations  for  the  wedding  hurried  on. 

The  middle  of  September,  which  seemed  so  happily  far 
off  to  Stella  when  she  named  the  day  which  was  to  prove 
the  consummation  of  Sir  Richard's  good  fortune,  drew 
near  with  fearful,  with  hideous  haste.  Night  after  night 
she  woke  from  terrible,  agonizing  dreams,  in  which  she 
saw  her  old  lover  lying  dead  at  her  feet,  in  which  she  felt 
herself  locked  in  the  cold  arms  of  a  statue  in  the  shape 
and  guise  of  Sir  Richard  Wildfang;  dreams  that  threw 
their  dark  shadows  over  her  waking  hours,  and  made  her 
cheek  paler  and  her  eyes  more  listless  than  ever. 

The  doctors — the  same  wise  creatures  who  had  de- 
clared Sir  Richard  needed  rest — opined  that  Miss  Newton 
would  be  benefited  by  the  wedding  trip  through  Switzer- 
land, and  with  wise  nods  and  shakes  of  the  head  said 
that  the  sooner  she  was  married  the  better. 

So  the  time  flew  by,  and  the  day  before  the  wedding 
fell  upon  her  with  a  suddenness  which  all  the  month  of 
preparation  had  not  rendered  less  appalling. 

Great  was  the  confusion,  and  in  the  midst  of  it  the 
lawyers  arrived  to  see  the  settlement  duly  signed  and 
executed. 

Lord  Marmion,  the  young  peer,  was  to  give  his  beauti- 
ful ward  away,  and  lie  was  there  with  the  lawyers,  all 
smilingly  affectionate,  but  not  a  little  uneasy  and  anxious 
at  the  pallor  and  indifference  of  the  bride.  So  uneasy 
and  anxious,  indeed,  that  when  he  came  into  the  drawing- 
room,  after  the  grand  dinner  which  had  been  given  as  a 
preparation  to  the  festivities  which  were  to  follow  on 
the  happy  pair's  return,  he  sought  Stella  as  she  sat  alone 
and  in  silence  by  that  window  through  which  she  had 
first  seen  Louis  Felton,  and,  with  a  sudden  bluntness 
which  sent  the  blood  to  her  pale  face,  said : 


i88  Stella's  Fortune. 

"Stella,  you  won't  mind  me.  I'm  your  guardian,  you 
know,  though  I  am  such  a  youngster  for  that  post.  Now. 
tell  me  the  truth." 

"Certainly,  Lord  Marmion,"  said  Stella,  languidly  mov- 
ing her  face,  but  smiling  as  she  looked  up  at  him  with  a 
smile  that  was  pitiful  in  its  wanness. 

"Stella,  tell  me,  would  you  like  this — this — wedding 
put  off?" 

A  flush  and  an  eager  light  lit  up  her  face  and  eyes,  and 
for  the  moment  she  seemed  almost  to  pour  out  her  heart 
to  him,  but  at  that  moment  her  mother's  voice,  harsh, 
triumphant  and  strident,  smote  her  ear,  and  with  'all  her 
old  coldness  and  apathy,  she  said : 

"No ;  I  have  no  reason  for  postponing  it." 

The  young  lord  sighed,  looked  at  her  hesitatingly,  then 
rose,  for  the  lawyers  were  announced. 

There  were  three  of  them,  and  they  came  with  their 
soft  smiles  and  ceremonious  bows  to  each  other,  yet 
eagerly  ready  to  seize  any  advantage  one  from  the  other, 
just  for  seizing's  sake. 

Mrs.  Newton  welcomed  them  with  stately  pomposity. 

Lights  were  placed  on  a  table  cleared  of  its  books  and 
bric-a-brac  for  the  occasion,  and  the  lawyers  fell  to  chat- 
ting on  the  deeds  and  parchments,  waiting  for  the  arrival 
of  Sir  Richard. 

"Sir  Richard  is  a  little  late,  my  dear  Stella,"  smiled 
Mrs.  Newton,  as  she  glanced  at  the  clock. 

"Ah,  here  he  is,"  said  Lord  Marmion,  "and  I'll  wager 
your  clock  is  fast,  Mrs.  Newton.  Wildfang  is  always 
punctual." 

The  door  was  opened  and  Sir  Richard  entered. 

Very  calm,  placid  and  self-assured  he  looked,  and  al- 
most handsome. 

The  soft,  delicate  light  fell  upon  his  clean-cut  face  and 
smoothly  brushed  hair,  and  showed  up  the  darkness  and 
depth  of  his  small,  defiant  eyes. 

He  stood  for  a  second  looking  on  the  scene,  the  law- 
yers at  their  table,  Stella  at  her  place  by  the  window, 
Lord  Marmion  beside  her,  Mrs.  Newton  coming  sailing 
across  the  room  to  press  his  hand. 

Then  he  advanced,  with  his  soft,  set  smile. 


Stella's  Fortune.  189 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Newton,  I  am  not  late,  I  hope?  No, 
your  clock  is  fast ;  there  strikes  the  hour." 

Then  he  glided  up  to  Stella  and  bent  over  her  respect- 
fully, devotedly. 

Then  he  shook  hands  with  Lord  Marmion,  and  after 
chatting  a  few  minutes,  sauntered  to  the  lawyers,  who 
were  all  smiling  and  ceremonious,  inwardly  worshiping 
the  wealthy  and  influential  man  who  was  about  to  put 
the  coping  stone  to  the  edifice  by  marrying  a  young  and 
beautiful  heiress. 

The  parchments  were  spread  out ;  Lord  Marmion,  with 
the  puzzled  look  upon  his  fair,  young  face  which  always 
settled  there  when  business  was  in  the  wind,  leaned  over 
the  table,  while  the  contents  of  the  various  deeds  were 
explained  over  and  over  again  to  him,  and  soon  Mrs. 
Newton  joined  the  gentlemen  at  the  table,  and  Stella 
sat  alone,  gazing  at  the  fire,  paying  no  heed. 

The  conference,  or  conversation,  went  on  in  a  pleasant 
hum,  the  lawyers'  dry  voices  above  the  rest,  and  she  still 
sat  indifferent  and  listless. 

Suddenly,  however,  one  word  smote  her  ear  and 
aroused  her  from  her  lethargy. 

"In  the  matter  of  the  purchase  of  the  Hut,  as  it  is 
called,  at  Heavithorne,"  Sir  Richard's  lawyer  was  saying 
with  dry  slowness,  to  Lord  Marmion,  "you  are  aware 
that  Sir  Richard  intended  and  still  intends  purchas- 
ing it?" 

"No,"  said  Lord  Marmion,  quite  aloud,  and  entirely 
missing  the  frown  of  warning  which  Sir  Richard  bent 
upon  his  solicitor,  who,  for  his  own  part,  was  so 
wrapped  in  his  explanations  and  definitions  that  he  him- 
self, usually  keen-sighted  enough,  did  not  observe  the 
frown,  and  went  on  with  slow  distinctness. 

"Yes,  Sir  Richard,  was  desirous  of  obtaining  the  house 
and  land  pertaining,  with  the  ultimate  object  of  adding 
the  land  to  the  Vale  estate,  as  a  slight  token — ahem — of 
respect  and  esteem  for  Mrs.  Newton.  So  runs  this  mem- 
orandum, which  is  a  clause  in  the  deed,  and  which  goes 
on  further  to  state  that  the  house  shall  be  pulled  down 
and " 

A  slight  movement  from  that  part  of  the  room  where 
Stella  had  been  sitting  caused  him  to  turn  his  head. 


Stella's  Fortune. 

Stella  had  risen,  and  with  a  dreadful  pallor  was  gaz- 
ing" at  the  group  around  the  table. 

Mrs.  Newton,  with  mingled  alarm  and  surprise,  went 
to  her. 

"Are  you  faint,  my  dear  Stella?" 

"No,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "The  room  is  hot,  I 
think." 

Then,  as  Sir  Richard  quietly  opened  the  door,  she  ad- 
vanced slowly  to  the  table. 

"What  was  that  I  heard  about  Heavithorne  ?" 
''  The  solicitor  took  up  the  deed,  and  with  a  deferential 
smile,  commenced: 

"I  was  explaining  to  Lord  Marmion  the  proposed  deed 
of  gift  of  the  Hut,  at  Heavithorne,  which  Sir  Richard 
is  desirous  of  purchasing.  The  house  is  to  be  pulled 
down,  and  the  land  added  to  the  Vale,  thereby  greatly  im- 
proving the  estate.  So  runs  the  deed,  which  we  could 
now  properly  execute  but  for  one  great  hindrance — the 
house  and  land  are  not  yet  ours,  though  Sir  Richard 
has  made  every  effort  to  get  them  into  his  possession. 

"You  see,  my  dear  Miss  Newton,"  he  went  on,  glanc- 
ing at  the  deed,  and  entirely  unconscious  of  the  expres- 
sion of  Stella's  face  and  the  fixed  regard  of  her  eyes. 
"You  see,  there  is  some  difficulty  in  finding  the  owner,  a 
young  man  by  the  name  of  Felton — Louis  Felton — who 
seems  to  have  disappeared  from  the  face  of  the  earth; 
or,  at  least,  to  speak  more  correctly,  has  eluded  the  most 
minute  inquiries  of  our  agents.  It  is  possible — indeed, 
it  is  very  possible — that  he  is  dead " 

Sir  Richard  stepped  forward  and  almost  snatched  the 
deed  from  the  lawyer's  hand. 

"Excuse  me,"  he  said,  "you  are  wearying  Miss  New- 
ton. The  deed  is  of  little  or  no  consequence;  be  good 
enough  to  lay  it  aside." 

Then,  as  the  astonished  and  mortified  lawyer  bowed 
in  compliance,  Sir  Richard  led  Stella  away. 

She  went  passively,  like  some  one  lost  to  all  uses  of 
world  or  life  itself,  and  sank  into  her  old  seat  and  her  old 
attitude. 

Here  she  was,  to  be  married  tomorrow,  in  all  pomp 
and  state,  and  he — he  "was  in  all  probability  dead!" 


Stella's  Fortune.  igj 

Then  Sir  Richard  went  back  to  the  table  with  a  de- 
cided air  which  sat  upon  his  face  when  business  was 
paramount,  and  made  a  sign  to  the  lawyers. 

"My  lord,"  said  one  of  them  to  Lord  Marmion,  "I 
think  we  are  all  ready;  there  are  only  the  signatures 
wanting  now." 

"Eh?  Oh,  very  good,"  said  Lord  Marmion.  "Who 
signs  first?" 

And  he  looked  around  helplessly  at  Mrs.  Newton. 

"Sir  Richard  will  sign  first,"  said  the  lawyer,  spread- 
ing out  the  deed.  "Now,  Sir  Richard,  if  you  please." 

Sir  Richard  took  up  the  pen,  steadied  the  parchment 
with  the  fingers  of  his  small,  white  hand,  and  signed  his 
influential  name,  with  its  well-known  flourish. 

Then  Lord  Marmion — with  three  lawyers  to  show  him 
the  exact  spot — nervously  scrawled  his  name. 

Mrs.  Newton  came  smiling  up,  and  wrote  her  name 
with  a  self-satisfied  laugh. 

It  was  Stella's  turn  and  the  lawyers  looked  patiently  at 
her  as  she  rose  and  came  slowly  toward  the  table,  on 
Lord  Mansion's  arm. 

"You  sign  here,"  whispered  the  lawyer,  "just  along 
this  pencil  line.  Your  full  name,  if  you  please." 

She  seated  herself,  took  the  pen  which  Lord  Marmion 
handed  her,  and  bent  her  head  to  write. 

Then  her  hand  trembled,  and  she  paused  as  if  about 
to  refuse. 

But  the  next  moment  she  set  the  pen  to  the  paper,  and 
the  words  which  would  have  bound  her  to  life  would 
have  started  up  upon  the  parchment  had  not  a  voice, 
which  seemed  to  thrill  the  room  like  the  deep,  clear 
clang  of  a  midnight  bell,  started  the  pen  from  her  hand. 

"Stella!  Stop!  I  am  here!" 

She  turned  with  a  wild,  mad  cry,  half  of  fear,  half  of 
joy,  and  rose  with  outstretched  hands. 

All  eyes  were  turned  likewise,  and  every  one,  lawyers. 
Lord  Marmion,  Mrs.  Newton,  Sir  Richard  himself, 
seemed  terrified  into  inaction. 

There  in  the  doorway-  stood  two  men;  a  young  gen« 
tleman  in  rough  traveling  dress;  a  man,  grim  and  fero- 
cious behind  him. 

Sir  Richard's  stupefaction  lasted  only  for  a  minute. 


192  Stella's  Fortune. 

Then  he  strode  forward,  and,  laying  his  hand  upu= 
Stella's  ami,  confronted  the  stranger. 

"Mr.  Felton,  this  intrusion  is  an  insult  which  I  shall 
know  well  how  to  punish." 

Louis  struck  his  arm  from  his  grasp,  and,  taking 
Stella  on  his  own,  led  her  to  the  table. 

"Gentlemen — my  lord — I  am  Louis  Felton.  the  master 
of  Heavithorne,  and  this  lady's  affianced  husband! 
Silence!"  he  added,  suddenly,  as  Sir  Richard  moved  to- 
ward him,  and,  white  with  fear  or  passion,  seemed 
about  to  speak. 

"Silence!  Interrupt  me  at  your  peril!  Gentlemen,  I 
demand  to  see  those  deeds !" 

Lord  Marmion,  all  courage  now  that  there  was  some 
tangible  work  in  hand,  came  forward,  stern  and  proud. 

"You  demand !  By  what  right,  Mr.  Felton  ?" 

"By  the  right  of  this  lady's  plighted  troth.  Is  it  no* 
so?"  he  murmured  in  Stella's  ear. 

She  could  not  speak,  but  her  eyes  said,  plainly . 

"It  is  true ;  let  him  see  the  deeds." 

Th*1  lawyers  glanced  at  Sir  Richard,  but,  without  wait- 
ing for  their  permission,  Louis  took  up  the  deed,  glanced 
at  it,  then,  turning  to  Lord  Marmion,  said,  in  distinct 
tones: 

"As  I  suspected.  My  lord,  you  have  narrowly  escaped 
a  fraud.  The  deed  is  a  fraud  from  beginning  to  end. 
There  are  no  such  moneys,  no  such  estates,  as  are  here 
set  forth.  Sir  Richard  Wildfang  is  a  bankrupt,  a  rogue, 
a  swindler,  and  will  soon,  if  justice  be  not  balked,  be 
a  felon !" 

Sir  Richard  strode  forward,  but  the  other  figure  ad- 
vanced. 

"Stephen  Hargrave?"  breathed  Sir  Richard. 

The  man  did  not  smile  in  triumph,  but  kept  his  hun- 
gry eyes  fixed  in  hatred  opon  the  smooth  face  and  nod- 
ded sullenly. 

"You  doubt  my  word  ?"  said  Louis.  1  prove  it  Mr, 
Dewlap,  -ie  good  enough  to  produce  Sir  Richard'* 
books'* 

TV  4i»nr  opened;  Mr.  Dewlap  entered 
«aki  Sir  Richard 


Stella's  Fortune.  193 

"Silence!"  said  Louis.  "He  was  compelled.  The  law 
is  stronger  than  even  you,  Sir  Richard  Wildfang." 

"Explain  those  entries,"  said  Louis. 

Mr.  Dewlap  stepped  forward  and  faltered  out  some 
words. 

"Stop!"  said  Sir  Richard,  with  a  malignant  smile.  "I 
will  save  you  that  trouble.  It  is  quite  true,  Lord  Mar- 
mion.  I  am  a  broken  man.  I  fail  tomorrow." 

Lord  Marmion  turned  pale  and  caught  him  by  the 
arm. 

"Scoundrel!  Where  is  Stella's  fortune?"  he  breathed, 
in  an  agitated  whisper. 

"Gone!"  retorted  Sir  Richard,  "every  penny." 

And  he  glanced  defiantly  at  Louis. 

"Then  you  are  guilty  of  embezzlement,  Sir  Richard!" 
broke  out  Lord  Marmion's  lawyer. 

"And  forgery!"  exclaimed  another,  tapping  a  docu- 
ment excitedly. 

Mrs.  Newton  screamed  and  rushed  to  Lord  Marmion. 

"Lord  Marmion,  who  are  these  dreadful  people?  What 
does  it  all  mean?" 

"It  means,  madam,"  said  Louis,  "that  the  mask  is 
stripped  from  the  face  of  a  plausible  villain.  I  am  Louis 
Felton,  whom  you  know  as  the  master  of  ruined  Heavi- 
thorne,  whom  you  may  remember  as  the  suitor  for  your 
daughter's  hand.  That  man  is  Sir  Richard's  accomplice, 
dupe  and  tool.  He  it  was  who  worked  out  the  vile  plan 
which  branded  me  with  dishonor.  He  it  was  who  lured 
me  by  a  false  'ale  to  hire  a  carriage  and  appear  on  the 
scene  at  the  moment  at  which  my  presence  was  required 
to  carry  out  the  scheme  which  that  villain  had  planned. 
This  man  can  tell  you  the  story  at  some  future  time.  If 
you  seek  confirmation  of  my  words,  look  on  that  face  and 
find  it,"  and  he  pointed  to  Sir  Richard  Wildfang,  who 
stood  with  white  face,  biting  his  lip  and  struggling  for 
calm. 

"So  you  have  betrayed  me,  have  you?"  he  hissed  at 
Stephen  Hargrave.  /"Traitor!  let  those  believe  you  who 
are  idiots  enough.  As  for  me,  I  shall  seek  justice  where 
I  am  more  at  liberty  to  obtain  it  than  here,"  and  he  glared 
at  Lord  Marmion. 


194  Stella's  Fortune. 

Stephen  Hargrave  stretched  out  his  hand  and  with 
main  force  hurled  him  back. 

"Not  yet,"  he  breathed,  hoarsely;  "not  yet!" 

Louis  held  up  his  hand  to  restrain  him,  and,  address- 
ing Lord  Marmion,  said : 

"This  assertion  can  be  proved;  you  see,  my  lord,  the 
culprit  confesses  so  much  of  his  crime.  He  is  bankrupt, 
penniless,  he  says;  therefore  Miss  Newton's  fortune 
is———'* 

"Lost,  lost !  oh,  Heaven !"  shrieked  Mrs.  Newton. 

"Not  lost!'*  said  Louis  quietly. 

All  the  lawyers  rose,  breathless. 

"It  is  here,"  said  Louis,  taking  a  bag  from  Stephen 
Hargrave,  and  placing  it  on  the  table. 

"The  schemer  wove  scheme  within  scheme,  and  the 
webs  of  all  are  broken.  These  books  have  been  falsified 
to  suit  his  purpose.  The  money  which  is  here  set  forth' 
as  expended  he  buried  under  the  shrubbery  of  the  Hut ! 
Look  at  his  face !  Ask  him  how  we  have  discovered  that, 
and  if  he  can't  tell  you,  I  can.  An  old  man  and  a  child 
were  taking  shelter  within  a  dozen  yards  of  him.  They 
saw  him  bury  the  money  1  They  saw  him,  maddened  by 
his  guilty  fear,  fly  for  escape  from  them.  Alas!  far 
worse !  They  were  in  his  path,  and,  as  was  his  wont,  he 
swept  them  from  it.  The  old  man  and  his  child  fell.  The 
child  died,  murdered  by  the  hand  of  its  father!" 

Sir  Richard  started,  and  turned  his  white  face  toward 
the  group. 

"Father !"  he  said,  with  a  hollow  laugh,  "It  was  Lucy's 
child,  then;  Lucy's  child!" 

"It  was,"  said  Louis,  sternly.  "Your  bad  deeds,  your 
cruelty,  have  returned  upon  your  own  head.  Have  you 
no  remorse?" 

Sir  Richard  made  no  reply,  but  his  lips  moved. 

"It  was  them,  then,"  he  murmured,  "it  was  their  ghost! 
I  saw  it !  I  knew  it !" 

He  covered  his  face  for  a  moment  with  his  hands  and 
all  were  silent.  Then,  suddenly,  he  sprang  at  Stephen 
Hargrave,  and,  clutching  his  coat,  glared  at  him. 

"All  this  is  your  doing!  You  have  betrayed  me,  have 
found  him  and  brought  him  here!  Why  did  you  do  it? 


Stella's  Fortune.  195 

Did  I  ever  do  you  any  harm?  Had  you  any  spite  to  sat- 
isfy, any  jealousy,  and  hatred?  I  paid  you— I  bought 
you.  Why  did  you  play  traitor?" 

"Do  you  ask  me?  Do  you  want  to  know?"  said 
Stephen  Hargrave,  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 

"You  cur,  I  do!"  snarled  Sir  Richard. 

"Look  back,  then!"  said  Stephen  Hargrave.  "Look 
back  to  the  night  you  stole  an  innocent  girl  from  her 
home  and  the  man  who  loved  her!  Lucy  was  that  girl! 
I  am  the  man  you  stole  her  from !" 

"You,"  said  Sir  Richard,  "Lucy's  lover!" 

"Ay,  Lucy's  lover,  and  Lucy's  avenger!'*  retorted 
Stephen  Hargrave. 

Sir  Richard  looked  around  helplessly,  then  moved  to- 
ward the  door. 

One  of  the  lawyers  rose  as  if  to  stop  him,  but  Lord 
Marmion  held  up  his  hand. 

"Let  him  go,"  he  said. 

Sir  Richard,  with  a  meaningless  smile,  slowly  passed 
out  at  the  door. 

The  moment  his  hated  presence  had  left  the  room 
Stella's  strong  spirit  gave  way.  With  a  cry  of  relief  and 
joy  she  fell  back  in  her  lover's  arms. 

Mrs.  Newton  rushed  toward  her,  the  lawyers  crowded 
around,  folding  up  their  parchments  as  they  did  so. 

Lord  Marmion  rang  the  bell  for  water,  and  a  mes- 
senger to  send  for  a  doctor.  All  was  in  confusion. 

For  some  minutes  the  swoon  lasted,  then  Stella  opened 
her  eyes. 

"He  has  gone!"  she  murmured,  looking  up  at  Louis' 
face  with  deep,  loving  trustfulness. 

"Forever!"  he  said. 

"And  you  are  here,"  she  said,  with  a  soft  sigh. 

"Forever,"  he  breathed  again. 

Then  all  at  once,  and  at  the  same  moment,  they  missed 
Stephen  Hargrave. 

Louis'  face  turned  grave,  and,  placing  Stella  beside 
her  mother,  he  beckoned  Lord  Marmion  aside. 

"Let  some  one  go  after  and  secure  him,  my  lord,  01 
there  will  be  mischief  1"  he  whispered. 


196  Stella's  Fortune. 

Lord  Marmion  hurried  from  the  room,  and  the  search 
and  pursuit  commenced. 

But  Stephen  Hargrave  had  got  the  start,  and  used  it 
fatally. 

The  detectives  found  the  dead  body  of  Sir  Richard 
Wildfang,  lying  shot  through  the  head  in  his  private 
room,  but  Stephen  Hargrave  was  never  more  seen  by 
any  whom  this  story  concerns. 

*****  * 

It  is  Christmas  Eve  once  again. 

Christmas  at  the  Hut,  which  is  now  resplendent  with 
all  the  glories  a  great  upholsterer  can  produce. 

In  the  hall  blazes  a  large  fire,  whose  ruddy  light  falls 
upon  a  happy  group. 

There  are  the  cousins,  the  schoolgirl,  Trottie,  and  all. 
There  is  the  old  cousin,  sitting  smiling  in  his  corner,  and 
Mrs.  Newton  opposite,  smiling — really  smiling,  too. 
Above  their  heads  hangs  a  picture  of  an  old  man,  hunch- 
backed and  misshapen,  with  a  child's  face  peeping  from 
his  coat.  Both  the  old  man  and  child  are  sleeping  to- 
gether in  the  little  churchyard  in  the  Vale,  waiting  till 
they  awaken  in  the  country  of  eternal  summer,  but  the 
firelight  seems  to  endue  their  faces  with  life,  and  they 
look  down  smiling,  too. 

"Eight  o'clock,"  lisped  Trottie,  her  voice  breaking  in 
through  the  laughter  and  chatter.  "Eight  o'clock,  and 
Cousin  Telia  and  Louis  will  be  here  soon." 

An  eager,  "yes,"  goes  around,  and  clocks  and  watches 
are  consulted. 

They  are  all  waiting.  The  fire  blazes  higher,  the  ex- 
citement of  suspense  and  expectation  rises  with  the  fire. 

Suddenly  Trottie's  sharp  ears  catch  the  rattle  of  car- 
riage wheels.  There  are  sounds  outside,  men  cheering, 
boys  hurrahing.  Instantly  the  cousins,  Mrs.  Newton,  the 
old  man  himself,  all  rush  out  into  the  hall;  a  carriage 
dashes  up,  the  hall  door  is  thrown  open,  and  there  enter 
Stella  and  Louis,  the  bride  and  bridegroom,  just  returned 
from  their  wedding  tour;  returned  to  spend  their  Christ- 
mas at  home! 

With  all  three  cousins  clinging  to  Stella,  happy,  blush- 
teg  Stella  is  dragged  into  the  firelight 


Stella's  Fortune.          ^  197 

All  the  voices  seem  to  talk  and  laugh  at  the  same  time. 
There  is  such  kissing  and  handshaking,  such  wishing  of 
Merry  Christmases  and  Happy  New  Years  as  never  were 
before,  and  no  one  can  speak  distinctly  nor  intelligently 
until  the  happy  welcome  has  been  got  through,  and  Louis 
returns  to  the  room  with  his  beautiful  Stella  upon  his 
arm. 

Then  they  crowd  around  them  again,  and  it  is  not  until 
the  question  has  been  put  for  the  fifth  time  that  the  old 
cousin  can  croon  forth: 

"And  what  about  the  lawsuit,  Mr.  Felton  ?" 

"Oh,  the  lawsuit !"  laughs  Louis,  drawing  his  wife  to- 
ward him.  "We've  won  it,  Cousin  John!  We've  won  it, 
and  everything  else.  We  are  rich  now  in  money,  in 
friends,  and  in  love.  Listen !  There  are  the  bells !  Girls, 
children,  all,  a  Merry  Christmas  and  a  Happy  New 
Year!" 

"Yes,  it  is  Christmas  Day,"  murmurs  Stella,  an  hour 
later,  when  they  stood  locked  heart  to  heart  in  the  now 
silent  room,     "Do  you  remember  our  last  Christmas 
Louis?" 

"Shall  I  ever  forget,  my  own?"  he  breathes. 

"How  we  feared — alas,  too  truly!" 

"Yet  how  we  loved !"  he  breaks  in,  stopping  her  with 
a  kiss.  "Christmas  has  been  a  happy  season  for  us, 
my  darling — this  is  the  happiest  of  all,  for  it  is  Love's 
Christmas  1" 

THE  EOT* 


"Now,  Florence,  listen  to  me  for  one  moment,  $ 
promise  to  love  you  truly,  and  you  alone  ;  I  will  devote 
my  whole  life  to  your  happiness.  Tell  me,  in  return,  will 
you  be  my  wife  ? " 

The  speaker  was  a  tall  well-built  young  man  of  twenty 
years,  with  a  dark  and  somewhat  haughty  expression  of 
face,  regular  features,  and  large  lustrous  eyes ;  his  head 
was  covered  with  black  wavy  hair.  Walter  Bohun  was 
indeed  a  fine  specimen  of  an  Englishman. 

His  companion  was  fair,  with  calm  dove-like  eyes  and  a 
wonderfully  sweet  expressive  face.  No  one  ever  called 
Florence  Hamilton  beautiful;  yet  all  who  knew  her 
loved  her  for  her  charm  of  manner,  her  sweet  disposition, 
her  noble  character.  Hers  was  the  highest  order  of 
loveliness — the  beauty  that  comes  from  a  noble  mind  and 
heart. 

As  she  stood  amongst  the  trees,  the  sheen  of  the  golden 
sunlight  falling  upon  her,  she  looked  a  fair  and  lovable 
woman — one  whom  a  man  might  be  proud  to  woo  and 
win,  and  make  his  own. 

She  listened  to  her  lover's  ardent  words  with  quiet 
happiness  that  shone  in  her  love-lit  eyes.  When  he  had 
finished  speaking,  she  placed  her  hand  in  his  and  said 
gently— 

"  Yes,  I  will  be  your  wife,  Walter ;  and  I  will  be  true 
and  faithful  until  death  I" 

The  words  were  few,  but  they  meant  more  coming 


from  Florence  Hamilton  than  would  a  whole  volume 
from  more  careless  lips;  they  meant  that  through  weal 
and  woe,  through  good  and  ill,  in  sunshine  and  in  shade, 
she  would  be  true  and  loyal  to  him. 

They  said  no  more ;  there  were  no  wild  raptures  over 
this  solemn  betrothal ;  both  felt  too  deeply  for  words. 
Walter  kissed  the  white  little  hand  that  lay  so  confidingly 
in  his  own,  and  then  they  walked  home  slowly  through 
the  verdant  sunny  fields. 

The  Bohuns  of  Carlshill  were  an  ancient  family.  Carls 
hill  Manor,  situated  in  the  most  beautiful  and  picturesque 
part  of  Devonshire,  had  been  the  home  of  the  Bohuns  for 
many  generations. 

The  present  Baronet,  Sir  Thornton  Bohun,  was  a  man 
of  morose  and  unamiable  character.  Quite  early  in  life  he 
had  quarrelled  with  his  only  brother,  Clarence,  the  father 
of  Walter ;  and,  though  the  younger  brother  had  tried  to 
bring  about  a  reconciliation,  the  Baronet  declined  it ;  and, 
when  poor  Clarence,  on  his  death-bed,  sent  to  implore  hip 
haughty  brother  to  forget  the  past  and  take  charge  of  his 
young  wife  and  their  little  son,  Sir  Thornton  paid  not  the 
^lightest  heed  to  his  message. 

The  cause  of  their  quarrel  was  never  known.  It  was 
«aid  that  both  had  loved  the  same  girl,  and  that  the 
younger  brother,  having  been  the  more  fortunate  wooer, 
bad  thus  incurred  the  deadly  hatred  of  the  elder. 

When  Clarence  died,  his  widow,  with  her  only  child, 
retired  to  the  little  village  of  Oulston.  She  could  no 
longer  afford  to  dwell  in  a  large  town,  for  Mr.  Bohun  had 
been  unable  to  make  any -provisions  for  his  wife ;  and  she 
had  nothing  but  a  small  allowance  which  she  received 
from  the  Baronet.  The  Carlshill  estates  were  however 
tntaiied,  and  the  harsh  and  moody  Sir  Thornton  had 


never  married ;  "Walter  was  consequently  the  heir.  His 
prospects  were  indeed  bright  —  for  the  income  of  the 
reigning  Bohun  was  above  ten  thousand  per  annum  —  but 
his  present  position  was  one  of  comparative  privation. 

Sir  Thornton  Bohun  never  took  the  least  notice  of  his 
young  heir  and  nephew,  though  he  did  once  express  a 
hope  that  the  boy  would  be  educated  as  a  gentleman,  and 
not  as  a  charity-school  child.  This  amiable  speech  having 
reached  the  ears  of  Mrs.  Bohun,  that  lady  made  every 
effort  to  secure  for  her  son  the  best  education  it  was 
possible  to  get.  With  her  limited  means  she  could  not 
of  c<  irse  send  him  to  college ;  but  she  did  all  that  lay  in 
her  power  to  remedy  that  deficiency.  In  the  little  secluded 
village  to  which  she  had  retired  resided  a  very  learned 
clergyman.  The  boy  was  placed  under  his  tuition,  and, 
being  a  sharp  intelligent  lad,  he  made  rapid  progress  in 
his  studies.  Thanks  to  his  mother's  care,  Walter  excelled 
in  lighter  accomplishments  as  well  as  in  those  that  were 
more  solid ;  he  painted  with  no  little  skill,  he  could  play 
well  and  sing  charmingly;  and  to  these  advantages  were 
added  a  sound  constitution,  a  mind  cultivated  and  refined, 
a  quick  vivid  fancy,  and  a  passionate  love  of  the  beautiful. 

Sir  Thornton  would  have  given  much  for  .the  power  to 
disinherit  the  son  of  the  brother  he  had  never  forgiven ; 
but,  as  this  could  not  be,  he  revenged  himself  by  utterly 
ignoring  the  existence  of  his  young  heir. 

Oulston  was  a  quaint  little  village  standing  on  the  out- 
skirts of  the  forest  of  Charnley,  in.  Leicestershire.  Among 
the  inhabitants  were  some  families  of  good  position ;  so 
that  Mrs.  Bohun  did  not  find- Oulston  absolutely  destitute 
of  "  society." 

The  rector,  Doctor  Marsh,  was  a  man  of  great  learning, 
and  since  the  death  of  his  wife  had  employed  his  leisure 


9  HIS   BROKEN   PROMISE. 

time  in  the  education  of  several  youths  who  had  been 
committed  to  his  care.  Then  there  was  the  honorable  Mrs. 
Thorpe,  a  little  old  woman  with  a  sharp  cracked  yoice ; 
and  there  was  Mrs.  Hamilton,  the  mother  of  Florence. 

Mrs.  Hamilton  belonged  to  a  good  old  family,  but  a 
very  impoverished  one.  She  was  a  lady  of  graceful 
presence,  dignified  yet  gentle,  accomplished  and  amiable. 
In  the  earlier  years  of  her  widowed  life  she  had  retired  to 
Oulston,  and  devoted  herself  entirely  to  the  care  and 
education  of  her  daughter;  and  Florence  had  amply 
repaid  her  mother's  anxious  devotion.  The  disposition  of 
the  girl  was  as  amiable  as  her  intellect  was  cultivated. 
But  beneath  the  gentle  graceful  manner  there  was  a  depth 
of  passionate  love,  a  capability  of  suffering,  that  one  would 
hardly  have  expected  in  so  delicate  a  girl.  There  were 
steadfast  faith,  constancy,  and  heroic  endurance;  there 
was  too  a  world  of  tenderness  that  Walter  Bohun's  love 
had  called  into  life. 

Mrs.  Hamilton  saw  with  pleasure  the  affection  that 
was  gradually  springing  up  between  her  daughter  and  the 
heir  of  the  Bohuns.  She  liked  and  esteemed  the  young 
man  for  his  intellectual  powers  and  his  many  sterling 
qualities.  For  these  alone  she  would  gladly  have  given 
him  her  daughter;  but  the  prospective  advantages  of 
•wealth  and  position  had  weight  with  her  also.  There 
was  a  sense  of  satisfaction  in  the  thought  that  her  child 
would  move  in  a  sphere  of  life  that  was  her  own.  Flor- 
ence was  in  every  way  fitted  for  the  position  that  awaited 
her,  and  the  mother  rejoiced  that  her  child's  fair  face, 
her  accomplishments,  and  her  sweet  character  would  not 
always  be  hidden  in  that  obscure  little  village. 

Mrs.  Hamilton  was  not  worldly ;  but  she  was  proud  o( 
her  daughter,  and  perhaps  somewhat  ambitious  for  her 


BIS  BROKEN  PROMIS8,  7 

future.  She  did  not  value  Walter's  love  for  fhe  worldly 
advantages  his  affection  would  bring ;  but  those  advantages 
were  a  pleasing  addition  to  what  she  felt  to  be  his  natural 
worth.  When  therefore  Walter  brought  Florence  home 
on  that  summer  evening,  and,  with  many  blushes  and 
much  confusion,  asked  her  consent  to  his  one  day  making 
the  young  girl  his  wife,  Mrs.  Hamilton  gave  it  gladly, 
rejoicing  in  the  fair  prospect  that  opened  before  her 
beloved  child. 

At  that  time  Walter  was  motherless.  Mrs,  Bohun  had 
lived  to  see  her  son  all  that  she  could  wish.  She  died 
however  before  the  wealth  that  was  one  day  to  be  his  fell 
to  him.  At  her  death  Sir  Thornton,  for  once  obliged  to 
take  some  little  notice  of  his  heir,  wrote  to  Doctor  Marsh 
and  asked  him  to  act  as  guardian  to  Walter,  refusing 
even  then,  when  the  young  fellow  seemed  alone  in  the 
world,  to  assist  him  beyond  continuing  the  allowance 
which  Mrs.  Bohun  had  received.  So,  at  the  time  when 
Walter  asked  Florence  to  be  his  wife,  he  was  an  inmate 
of  the  Rectory. 

It  was  perhaps  not  strange  that  young  Bohun  had  fallen 
in  love  with  Florence  Hamilton.  He  was  so  lonely  and 
she  so  kind  and  gentle.  She  sympathised  with  his  sorrows 
and  helped  him  to  endure  a  monotonous  life  of  which  he 
was  well-nigh  tired. 

Glowing  with  pride  at  his  success,  Walter  told  the 
Rector  what  he  had  done,  and  was  pleased  to  hear  that 
worthy  man's  entire  approval.  He  had  acted  wisely,  the 
Rector  said,  for  Florence  Hamilton  would  adorn  any 
station ;  but  he  strongly  advised  him  to  keep  the  engage- 
ment a  profound  secret  for  the  present,  feeling  sure,  from 
his  knowledge  of  the  Baronet's  peculiar  character,  that 
any  mention  of  the  matter  would  entail  most  disagreeable 
consequences  on  Mrs.  Haiuiijt&u  and  her  daughter. 


And  so  it  was  arranged  that  the  solemn  betrothal  should 
not  be  made  public.  The  lovers  were  inexpressibly 
happy  with  a  quiet  deep  happiness,  and  as  the  calm 
Bummer  days  passed  their  love  gained  in  intensity. 

Walter  continued  his  studies  under  Doctor  Marsh, 
being  anxious  to  fit  himself  for  the  position  that  would 
one  day  be  his;  and,  when  the  day's  work  was  ended, 
the  evening  was  devoted  to  Florence.  In  the  summer- 
time they  wandered  among  the  fields  and  lanes ;  in  the 
winter  they  sang  and  read  together  in  Mrs.  Hamilton's 
cosy  drawing-room.  Walter  intended  remaining  one 
year  longer  at  Oulston ;  and  then,  if  his  uncle  still  refused 
to  acknowledge  him,  he  had  determined  to  try  to  make  a 
position  for  himself.  He  felt  that  he  could  not  endure 
his  present  quiet  calm  existence  much  longer.  He 
decided  that  he  would  wait  no  longer  for  what  another 
man  had  to  leave  him,  but  would  strike  out  boldly  for 
himself ;  and  many  a  pleasant  hour  he  spent  with  Flor- 
ence arranging  the  future  that  smiled  BO  brightly  before 
them. 

Between  the  village  of  Oulston  and  thfi  wood  at  some 
little  distance  from  it  there  stood  on  the  brow  of  a  steep 
hill  the  residence  for  many  miles  around — Burgh  Hall,  the 
seat  of  the  De  Burghs.  There  had  been  a  pitiful  tragedy 
there.  Hubert  de  Burgh,  the  present  Baronet,  had  spent 
the  greater  part  of  his  youth  in  travelling.  In  wandering 
through  Spain  he  met  with  a  beautiful  Andalusian  gipsy- 
girl.  So  bewitchingly  lovely  was  she  that  Sir  Hubert 
put  aside  all  consideration  of  his  poistion  and  married  her. 
It  was  a  strange  union,  yet  they  appeared  to  be  exceed- 
ingly happy.  Within  one  year  after  their  marriage  they 
returned  to  Burgh  Hall,  the  gipsy-girl  transformed  into  a 
•fcately  lady  not  unworthy  in  face  and  figure  to  form  one 


HIS  BROKEN   PROMISE,  9 

of  the  long  line  of  Ladies  De  Burgh.  A  little  child,  a 
girl  inheriting  her  mother's  Spanish  loveliness  of  face 
had  increased  their  happiness.  Sir  Hubert  had  named 
her  Inez,  after  his  wife. 

Lady  De  Burgh,  before  she  met  with  her  husband,  had 
been  for  three  years  betrothed  to  the  son  of  the  head  cf 
her  tribe,  an  Andalusian,  who  loved  passionately  the 
beautiful  gipsy-girl.  Her  treachery  half  maddened  him, 
and  he  swore  to  be  revenged  if  it  cost  him  his  life. 

One  bright  summer  day  Lady  De  Burgh  was  found 
lying  dead  in  the  little  fir  wood  behind  the  Hall ;  and, 
although  every  effort  was  made  to  discover  the  murderer, 
the  search  proved  fruitless.  From  that  time  his  English 
home  was  unendurable  to  Sir  Hubert.  He  left  the  place, 
taking  with  him  a  few  old  servants  and  his  little  daughter ; 
and  from  that  hour  the  home  of  the  De  Burghs  began 
gradually  to  go  to  ruin.  Grass  grew  in  the  court-yard ; 
the  gardens,  once  the  admiration  of  all  the  county,  were 
overrun  with  weeds  and  brambles ;  deer  ran  wild  in  the 
undulating  park  that  was  bounded  by  Charnley  Forest. 
The  Hall  itself  looked  even  more  desolate  than  the 
grounds.  The  windows  that  once  gleamed  with  lights 
were  now  closed  and  boarded  up ;  a  weird  desolation 
seemed  to  brood  over  the  whole  place. 

It  was  twenty  years  since  Sir  Hubert  had  fled  from  the 
scene  of  his  sorrow,  and  the  ponderous  doors  of  the  Hall 
had  never  been  opened  since.  All  recollection  of  the 
Baronet  had  nearly  died  away,  for  those  whom  he  left 
young  were  now  on  the  shady  side  of  life,  while  the 
children  he  had  known  had  become  men  and  women. 

The  fir  wood  behind  the  Hall  was  a  favorite  walk  with 
Florence  and  Walter.  A  little  brook  ran  murmuring 
through  it  and  the  fairest  wild-flowers  grew  there;  a 


10  HI*  BROKEN   PROMISE. 

white  stone  marked  the  spot  where  years  before  the 

rmfortnnate  Lady  De  Burgh  had  met  with  her  death. 
#  *  #  *  #  * 

"  Wonders  will  never  cease  ! "  said  the  Hector  to 
Walter  one  mormrcjr.  "  What  do  you  think  this  letter 
tells  me?" 

"I  could  never  guess,"  answered  the  young  man. 
"*  Perhaps  my  uucta  is  married,  and  writes  good-naturedly 
fo  say  that  he  has  a  son  and  heir. 

"  It  is  even  more  wonderful  than  that.  The  De  Burghs 
•ire  coming  home  —  at  last  Sir  Hubert  is  tired  of  wander- 
ing. An  upholsterer  is  coming  down  from  London,  and 
the  Hall  is  to  be  thoroughly  renovated.  We  shall  have 
*ome  stir  in  the  county  now,  rely  upon  it,  Walter.  A 
friend  of  mine  who  met  Sir  Hubert  and  his  daughter  in 
ttaly  two  years  since  told  me  that  Miss  De  Burgh  was 
Qhe  most  beautiful  girl  he  had  ever  seen.  She  will  not 
be  very  rich  though,  I  should  imagine,  for  the  estate  is 
entailed  and  goes  to  a  distant  cousin." 

"  I  am  heartily  glad  to  hear  the  news,"  said  Walter ; 
u  it  was  really  painful  to  see  such  a  fine  old  place  going 
V)  ruin.  When  are  they  expected  ?  " 

"  In  a  few  weeks,  I  believe,"  replied  the  Rector.  "  It 
Kill  make  a  great  difference  to  Oulston." 

For  a  month  after  this  conversation  the  villagers  amused 
fhem selves  by  watching  the  constant  arrival  of  goods  for 
the  Hall.  Costly  modern  furniture  came  from  London, 
pictures  and  statues  from  Italy.  Horses,  carriages,  and 
servants  all  arrived  in  due  course ;  but  as  yet  no  time  was 
mentioned  for  the  advent  of  Sir  Hubert  and  Miss  De 
3urgh. 

One  thing  the  villagers  noted  with  feelings  of  relief— 
the  fir  wood  was  partially  destroyed.  The  tallest  tree* 


H18  BROKEN  PROMISE.  11 

were  cut  down,  and  the  place  so  altered  tliat  it  would 
hardly  have  been  recognized.  Florence  alone  grieved 
over  the  alteration ;  she  had  loved  the  spot,  for  it  was 
there  that  Waiter  had  asked  her  to  be  his  wife. 

One  beautiful  evening,  when  the  air  was  full  of  the 
balmy  breath  of  spring,  Florence  asked  Walter  to  go  with 
her  to  say  good-bye  to  the  little  brook. 

"  You  know,"  she  said,  "  Sir  Hubert  is  coming  home 
next  week,  and  then  of  course  we  cannot  trespass  as  we 
have  hitherto  done;  let  us  go  by  the  lane  and  through 
ihe»park  into  what  was  the  fir  wood.  I  am  so  sorry  it 
has  been  destroyed. 

"But,  Florence  dear,  only  think  —  how  could  Sir 
Hubert  endure  the  sight  of  a  place  where  the  wife  he 
loved  so  well  had  met  with  her  death  ?  I  never  knew  the 
poor  lady,  of  course;  but  sometimes,  when  I  hav'e  been 
sitting  in  the  wood,  I  have  almost  fancied  I  heard  her 
voice  when  the  wind  sigh^,  •  caong  the  trees',  and  if  I, 
an  indifferent  stranger,  couiu  imagine  such  things,  what 
would  those  who  loved  her  as  Sir  Hubert  did  naffer  on 
seeing  the  spot  again  ? " 

"  Yes — that  is  quite  right.  But  I  was  not  thinking  of 

the  De  Burghs ;  I  loved  the  place  because "  Florence 

hesitated,  while  a  vivid  flush  overspread  her  face. 

"  Because,"  said  Walter,  with  a  smile,  "  it  was  there 
that  I  made  a  certain  confession  to  you  —  is  that  the 
reason  ? " 

"  I  suppose  so,"  replied  Florence  shyly.  She  was  not 
much  given  to  talking  of  her  love  —  it  was  too  deep,  too 
eacred  a  subject  for  ordinary  discussion ;  it  lived  in  the 
depths  of  her  heart,  and  its  brightness  made  the  light  of 
her  life. 

So  they  wandejjed  through  the  green  lane  where  the 


1JJ  HIS  BROKEN    PROMISE. 

hawthorn-hedges  were  all  in  bloom,  where  the  violets  ano 
primeroses  were  growing  in  rich  profusion,  through  the 
smiling  fields,  and  then  through  the  park,  where  the 
chestn4it-trees  were  already  beginning  to  show  their  tufted 
flowers,  and  so  into  the  grove  that  led  to  the  brook.  The 
fir-trees  were  almost  all  gone ;  only  few  remained,  but 
they  were  far  from  the  white  stone.  A  willow-tree 
drooped  its  branches  over  the  brook  and  just  touched  the 
surface  of  the  clear  murmuring  water.  They  sat  down  to 
rest  beneath  it. 

"Our  last  visit  to  this  dear  old  spot,"  said  Florence 
regretfully — "  I  shall  never  forget  it." 

A  dreamy  silence  fell  upon  them.  They  were  too 
happy  for  many  words.  "Walter  was  looking  with  loving 
eyes  on  the  fair  scene  before  him,  the  blue  sky,  the  green 
fields,  and  the  rippling  brooklet.  Florence  was  sunning 
herself  in  the  light  and  warmth  of  the  love  that  filled  her 
heart. 

The  young  man  was  aroused  from  his  day-dreams  by 
seeing  his  fiancee  shiver. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Florence  ? "  he  asked.  "Are  you 
cold?" 

"  No,"  she  answered,  with  a  faint  smile.  "  You  will 
think  me  foolish,  Walter ;  but  you  know  how  fond  I  am 
of  listening  to  the  murmur  of  the  brook — I  always  fancy 
it  is  singing  a  song  of  joy.  I  was  listening  to  it  just  then, 
and  the  water  seemed  to  fall  with  a  wailing  sound  that 
made  me  shudder  to  hear. 

"You  fanciful  little  darling!"  said  Walter,  with  a 
bright  laugh.  "  The  breeze  has  freshened,  and  the  brook 
runs  more  quickly — that  is  all." 

But  Florence  looked  pale.  She  tried  to  laugh  away 
the  miserable  depressing  feeling  which  had  suddenly 
seized  her :  but  she  could  not 


HIS  BROKEN   PROMISE.  13 

*  If  I  believed  in  forebodings,  Walter,"  she  responded, 
"  I  should  say  I  have  one  now." 

"  It  must  be  one  of  happiness  to  come  then,  Florence, 
for,  while  I  live  and  can  shield  you,  no  sorrow  or  care 
shall  come  near  you." 

"  Can  you  tell  me  if  the  gate  that  leads  from  here  to 
the  plantation  is  kept  locked?"  interrupted  a  musical 
voice  with  a  slight  foreign  accent ;  and  looking  up,  they 
saw  before  them  a  beautiful  vision  that  was  never  to  be 
effaced  from  their  memory — a  vision  of  a  young  girl  with 
a  dark  glowing  face  of  bewitching  beauty,  with  rich 
crimson  lips  that,  half  smiling,  revealed  white  teeth 
gleaming  like  pearls,  a  pair  of  shining  lustrous  eyes  full 
of  veiled  tenderness  and  of  deep  passion  and  liquid  light, 
a  ripple  of  black  hair  waving  from  a  haughty  brow  and 
half  hiding  neck  as  white  and  perfect  as  though  sculp- 
tured in  marble.  All  this  they  noted  in  the  first  astonished 
glance.  A  little  Spanish  hat  of  black  velvet  with  a  white 
drooping  plume,  a  mantilla  of  soft  velvet  that  seemed  to 
hold  a  different  light  in  each  fold,  a  gossamer-looking 
dress  that,  just  raised,  revealed  two  pretty  little  feet, 
completed  the  costume.  The  strange  visitor  looked 
piquant  and  ravishing. 

She  had  to  repeat  the  question  before  her  astonished 
listeners  recovered  themselves ;  then  Walter  rose,  and,  with 
a  low  bow,  replied  that  the  gate  was  close  at  hand,  and  hf 
would  see  whether  it  was  locked. 

The  lady  smiled  and  turned  to  Florence,  saying — 

<l  I  am  sorry  to  disturb  you ;  but  the  fact  is,  I  am  an 
entire  stranger  here  and  have  lost  my  way." 

Florence  looked  up  in  still  greater  bewilderment. 

"  I  see  you  wonder  who  I  am,"  added  the  strange  lady, 
with  an  expression  of  amusement.  "  1  must  introduce 


14  HIS  BROKEN  PROMISE. 

myself.    I  am  Miss  De  Burgh,  who  ought  to  know  every 
inch  of  these  grounds  by  heart." 

"  You  have  been  long  absent,"  returned  Florence  at  « 
loss  what  to  say. 

"May  I  inquire,"  asked  Miss  De  Burgh,  with  a  half- 
haughty,  half-familiar  manner  that  seemed  natural  to  her, 
whom  I  have  the  pleasure  of  addressing  ?  " 

"  I  am  Florence  Hamilton,"  answered  the  girl ;  an$ 
then  a  deep  flnsh  covered  her  face,  for  she  did  not  knov 
how  to  name  "Walter. 

"And  your  friend  ? "  inquired  Miss  De  Burgh,  with  i, 
glance  full  of  curiosity. 

"Is  "Walter  Bohun  ;  he  resides  with  Doctor  Marsh  at 
Onlston." 

A  half -smile  lingered  on  the  haughty  curved  lips  of  the 
fair  questioner. 

"  Do  you  reside  in  Oulston  too  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  yes ! "  answered  Florence.  "  My  mother  came 
to  live  here  in  the  same  year  that  Sir  Hubert  de  Burgh 
left  the  Hall.  Sir  Hubert  knew  mamma ;  he  will  re- 
member her  without  doubt." 

"  That  is  right ;  I  am  so  glad !  " — and  a  little  white  hana 
grasped  Florence's  own.  ""We  must  be  friends,  if  you 
will  consent.  It  will  be  an  unutterable  relief  to  me  to 
have  some  one  to  whom  I  can  confide  my  sorrow  at 
returning  to  this  desolate  place." 

"  Desolate ! "  cried  Florence.  "  Surely  you  like  Burgh 
Hall?" 

"  Like  Burgh  Hall  ? "  repeated  the  musical  voice,  witn 
a  slightly  contemptuous  inflection.  "  Surely  I  do  not! K 

'*  But  it  is  such  a  grand  old  place,"  remonstrated  Flor- 
ence. 

"I  might  like  it  very  well  if  I  had  never  known  any- 


BIS  BROKEN  PROMISE.  15 

thing  brighter ;  but,  after  sunny  France  and  its  gay  life* 
Spain  and  its  Moorish  remains,  Italy  and  its  marvellous 
works  of  art,  to  talk  of  liking  a  dreary  old  Hall  stand- 
ing near  a  still  more  dreary  village  with  a  dark  wood 
behind  it,  is  really  too  much !  I  often  tell  papa  I  have 
begun  life  at  the  wrong  end.  I  ought  to  be  just  looking 
•forward  to  life — instead  of  that,  I  am  tired  of  it  all.  I 
seem  to  have  been  everywhere  and  to  have  seei?  every- 
thing. But  I  am  wearying  you." 

"No,  indeed,"  declared  Florence.  "What  you  say 
sounds  very  strange ;  I  have  never  been  away  from  this 
village.*' 

"Then  you  have  plenty  to  see  and  to  experience," 
rejoined  her  companion. 

"  I  wish  I  could  say  as  much  for  myself.  See — here  is 
your  friend  returning!  You  must  introduce  me;"  and 
Walter,  to  his  intense  surprise,  was  introduced  to  Miss 
De  Burgh. 

"  We  returned  a  week  earlier  than  we  at  first  intend- 
ed," she  said,  in  explanation  of  her  presence.  "  But  papa 
felt  that  he  could  never  go  through  the  ordeal  of  a  pub- 
lic reception  such  as  he  had  heard  the  tenantry  intend- 
ed for  him.  We  reached  the  Hall  only  this  afternoon. 
I  felt  curious  to  know  if  I  remembered  anything  of  the 
grounds,  and,  as  you  see,  lost  myself  in  my  rambles.  I 
was  foolish  to  think  I  could  recall  anything ;  I  was  only 
three  years  old  when  we  left.  I  like  this  brook,"  she 
continued,  "and  this  drooping  willow.  What  is  that 
etone  1  It  looks  like  a  monument." 

Her  listeners  felt  a  shock  of  infinite  pity;  they  per- 
ceived at  once  that  the  radiant  girl  before  them  was 
entirely  ignorant  of  the  sad  fate  that  had  befallen  her 
mother. 


HIS    BEOKEN    PROMISi. 

"Piease  show  me  the  nearest  way  home,"  she  said; 
"papa  v1!!  be  anxious  about  ine.  Miss  Hamilton,  with 
your  permission,  I  shall  bring  Sir  Hubert  to-morrow  to 
"enew  his  acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Hamilton,  and  then  1 
sha^  iry  to  have  you  the  whole  day  to  myself.  Papa 
talks  of  giving  a  kind  of  inauguration  ball,  and  you  must 
tell  me  all  about  the  people  who  are  here." 

She  shook  hands  cordially  with  Florence,  and  then 
turned,  with  a  half  -shy  grace  that  was  most  bewitching, 
to  "Waiter. 

"Good    evening,"    she    said,    "and    thank  you,  Mi 
Bohun." 

Her  eyes  fell  a  little  before  the  admiring  look  that 
"Walter  could  not  resist  giving  her  ;  the  long  dark  lashes 
lay  like  a  fringe  upon  the  exquisitely-colored  cheeks. 

"How  beautiful  she  is!"  murmured  Florence,  as  they 
Watched  her  gleaming  dress  disappear  among  the  trees. 
'*  I  did  not  know  that  there  were  women  in  real  life  like 
her.  I  thought  such  characters  were  only  in  books. 
Fancy,  "Walter  —  she  has  been  to  France  and  Italy  and 
Spain  !  How  different  her  lot  is  from  mine  !  " 

Bat  Walter  made  no  reply  ;  he  was  thinking  that  Mist 
De  Burgh  had  looked  at  him  with  anything  but  disfavor 


The  ball  that  Inez  de  Burgh  called  an  inauguration 
was  a  most  brilliant  affair.  The  state  apartments  of  the 
Hall,  so  long  closed,  were  thrown  open;  the  gorgeous 
hangi»gs  and  costly  furniture  were  all  new  and  of  rare 
and  ricli  design.  The  ball-room  seemed  to  be  one  mass 
of  green  foliage  and  rare  exotics,  the  whole  illumined  by 
innumerable  chandeliers. 

Sir  Hubert  had  been  profuse  in  his  invitations  ;  all  the 
leading  families  of  the  country  were  there,  and  the  sedate 


HIS  BROKEN  PEOMT8S.  17 

quiet  inhabitants  of  Oulston  had  not  been  forgotten.  The 
Rector  was  there,  as  were  Mrs.  Hamilton  and  Florence, 
escorted  by  Walter  Bohun. 

A  great  intimaucy  had  sprung  up  between  the  family 
at  the  Hall  and  the  Rectory  people.  Sir  Hubert  had 
taken  a  great  fancy  to  the  young  heir  of  the  Bohuns ;  he 
feri  both  pity  and  indignation  at  his  isolated  condition. 
In  his  early  youth  he  had  known  Sir  Thornton  —  they 
had  been  young  men  of  fashion  together.  He  could  not 
understand  how  the  Baronet  could  allow  his  heir  to  re- 
main in  such  an  obscure  village  as  Oulston,  and  he  re- 
solved to  do  all  in  his  power  to  atone  for  the  old  Baronet's 
neglect.  The  consequence  was  that  Walter  now  spent 
some  hours  every  day  at  the  Hall,  riding  and  fishing  with 
Sir  Hubert,  driving  with  him  over  the  estate,  and  glean- 
ing from  him  many  valuable  hints  concerning  the  man- 
agement of  landed  property. 

Mrs.  Hamilton  and  Florence  at  first  felt  unwonted 
pleasures  that  Walter  had  found  new  and  congenial 
friends,  Inez  visited  them  frequently,  and  was  never 
more  happy  than  when  she  could  persuade  Florence  to 
pass  the  day  with  her;  and  Walter  would  often  join  them 
in  their  rambles  through  the  forest  of  Charnley. 

Florence  Hamilton  liked  her  new  friend  exceedingly, 
and  Inez  was  not  less  fond  of  the  fair  gentle  English  girl 
who  was  in  every  respect  so  great  a  contrast  to  herself. 

The  ball  was  the  first  Florence  ever  attended,  and  for 
some  days  previously  she  had  been  in  what  was  for  her 
an  extraordinary  flutter  of  excitement.  Mrs.  Hamilton, 
remembering  her  own  youthful  days,  had  perhaps  exceed- 
ed her  modest  means  in  purchasing  the  pretty  dress  that 
Florence  wore.  She  could  not  procure  new  ornaments, 
but  she  placed  the  parure  of  pearls  that  had  been  a 


18  m8   BROKEN   PROMISE. 

wedding-present  from  her  husband  in  Florence's  hande  ae 
the  only  gift  she  could  offer  her.  The  pretty  pink  dress 
and  the  gleaming  pearls  made  a  very  simple  and  effective 
toilette. 

Florence  hardly  recognised  herself  when  she  gave  the 
final  look  in  the  large  mirror.  The  bright  glistening  silk 
was  softened  by  rich  white  lace ;  the  fair  face,  usually  so 
calm  and  tranquil,  was  flushed  with  excitement ;  there 
was  a  light  in  her  eyes  which  came  from  hopes  as  bright 
as  they  were  beautiful.  The  thick  coils  of  light-brown 
hrir  were  woven  and  placed  like  a  coronet  round  the 
graceful  head.  The  well-shaped  arms  and  neck  rivalled 
the  pearls  that  gleamed  upon  them.  A  fair  vision  of 
loveliness  was  Florence  Hamilton  as  she  stood  in  her  ball' 
dress.  Her  mother  and  lover  were  both  proud  of  her. 

Florence  was  bewildered  by  the  coup  cF  ceil  that  the 
ball-room  presented ;  but  she  and  Walter  were  more  than 
bewildered  when  Inez  stood  before  them,  her  radiant  face 
bright  with  smiles  of  welcome.  Walter  had  never  seen 
Miss  De  Burgh  before  in  evening-dress,  and  he  was  liter- 
ally dazzled  by  her  bewitching  beauty.  A  robe  of  white 
satin  gleamed  through  the  white  lace  that  shrouded  its 
bright  folds,  a  coronet  of  diamonds  lay  amid  the  dark 
wavy  masses  of  hair,  a  diamond  necklace  encircled  the 
shapely  throat,  diamonds  gleamed  on  the  bare  arms.  In 
the  bodice  of  her  dress  she  wore  one  crimson  camellia,  and 
that  was  the  only  show  of  color  which  relieved  her  attire. 
She  was  indeed  a  vision  of  loveliness. 

Inez  open  the  ball  with  Lord  Beasdale,  then  Walter 
claimed  her  for  a  waltz.  The  music,  the  perfumes,  the 
flashing  jewels,  the  waving  plumes,  and  the  beautiful 
women  all  brought  to  him  a  sense  of  enchantment. 
When  the  notes  of  the  waltz  sounded  and  he  moved  to 


HIS  BEeEEN  PROMISE.  19 

its  music  with  Miss  De  Burgh,  he  was  fascinated  beyond 
expression.  Her  lustrous  eyes  were  raised  to  his,  her 
red  lips  were  parted  with  the  sweetest  of  smiles. 

"  I  am  never  tired  of  waltzing,"  siie  said  as  they  stood 
for  a  few  minutes  watching  the  happy  couples  as  they 
went  floating  by. 

"  I  should  never  tire  of  waltzing  with  you,"  declared 
"Walter.  "  I  would  give  years  of  life's  sober  joys  for  one 
such  half-hour  as  this." 

"I  am  not  a  'sober  joy,'  I  suppose/'  she  returned,  with 
a  pretty  pout. 

"You,  Miss  De  Burgh?  You  are  fascination  itself — 
irresistible ;  you  are " 

"  Do  not  go  into  raptures,  Mr.  Bohun,"  she  interrupted, 
laughing.  "  I  am  rather  amused.  I  should  hardly  have 
thought  you  capable  of  appreciating  anything  but  sober 
joys.  My  own  case  is  different.  I  confess  honestly  that 
I  like  excitement  of  all  kinds.  The  only  approach  to  a 
fault  that  I  have  noticed  in  you  is  that  you  seem  too 
quiet." 

"  Ah,  you  do  not  know  me !  I  feel  as  though  I  had 
awakened  from  a  long  deep  sleep." 

"At  whose  call?"  she  asked,  with  an  air  of  innocence 
that  she  knew  well  how  to  assume. 

"  Can  you  ask  me,  Miss  De  Burgh  ?  I  seem  to  per- 
ceive  beauty  and  grace  for  the  first  time." 

"  That  is  hardly  flattering  to  your  old  friends  Mr. 
Bohnn.  See — there  is  Florence  looking  at  us  with  eyea 
full  of  wonder !  Let  us  join  her." 

It  was  half  reluctantly  that  Walter  complied ;  he 
wanted  to  remain  near  this  dazzling  Circe  who  had  cap- 
tivated and  enthralled  him.  A  few  weeks  since  he  wonld 
have  asked  from  Fortune  nothing  better  than  to  be  with 


20  HIS   BROKEN  PROMISE. 

Florence.  Now  the  thought  of  leaving  the  radiant  girl 
by  his  side  for  conversation  or  a  dance  with  his  betrothed 
was  wearisome.  He  had  tasted  the  charmed  cup. 

Florence  had  noticed  the  long  tete-a-tete,  and  the  ad- 
miring look  that  her  lover  bent  upon  their  hostess.  A 
sharp  pang  of  jealousy  shot  through  the  girl's  heart  as  she 
saw  Walter's  impassioned  gesture  and  the  blush  that 
covered  Inez's  face. 

Miss  De  Burgh  had  no  idea  of  the  engagement  between 
Miss  Hamilton  and  Walter  Bohun,  for  the  two  still  kept 
ii  a  profound  secret  —  and  she  was  not  displeased  on  that 
happy  evening  to  read  something  more  than  admiration 
in  the  young  man's  face.  For,  with  all  the  strength  of 
her  warm  passionate  nature,  Inez  loved  Walter  Bohun, 
and  she  had  resolved  that  he  should  return  her  love ;  she 
had  loved  him  from  the  first  moment  she  saw  him  by 
the  brook-side, 

Walter  was  simple  and  inexperienced :  he  did  not  know 
tne  charm  that  drew  him  constantly  to  the  Hall;  the 
glamour  of  love  was  upon  him.  He  had  made  one 
mistake  in  life,  and  now  he  was  to  make  a  greater.  He 
had  mistaken  the  quiet  brotherly  affection  he  had  always 
felt  for  Florence  Hamilton  for  affection  of  another  kind ; 
and  now,  when  he  was  awakened  to  a  knowledge  of  his 
own  heart,  he  threw  his  love,  uninfluenced  by  any  thooght 
of  her  real  worth,  at  the  feet  of  one  who  had  won  him 
by  the  simple  powers  of  her  lustrous  beauty. 

That  he  had  made  a  mistake  Walter  felt  convinced  as 
Jbe  watched  the  two  girls — Florence  so  gentle,  so  fair, 
and  so  calm,  Inez  so  beautiful,  brilliant  and  piquant.  Kf 
thought  of  the  future  troubled  him  as  he  sunned  himsel 
in  the  light  of  her  eyes;  but,  as  he  watched  Miss  Dry 
Burgh,  he  wished  with  a  sigh  that  he  had  not  been  in 
gnite  such  a  hurry  to  engage  himself. 


HIS    BROKEN   PREMISS.  81 

*  What  a  grave  face  ! "  said  Inez  to  him,  as  she  flashed 
ft^  on  Lord  Beasdale's  arm. 

A  few  minutes  later  she  returned  alone.  He  was  still 
standing  where  she  had  left  him. 

"  Mr.  Bohun,"  she  said,  "  have  you  danced  with 
Florence  yet  ? " 

He  began  to  stammer  some  excuse. 

**  Nonsense !  "  she  cried.  "  Come  with  me — she  is  in 
the  conservatory  with  Mrs.  Hamilton — and  you  will  then 
be  able  to  thank  me  for  having  procured  you  a  *  sober 
joy.'  " 

There  was  a  slight  ring  of  sarcasm  in  her  voice ;  yet, 
slight  as  it  was,  it  gave  fresh  impulse  to  Walter's  new 
train  of  feeling. 

The  ball,  with  all  its  glories,  was  ended  at  last ;  but, 
when  Florence  thought  of  the  events  of  the  evening,  she 
did  not  feel  satisfied.  There  was  something  new  and 
strange  about  Walter.  Yet  the  next  evening  he  came  as 
usual,  and  was  kind  and  affectionate  in  his  manner. 
True  he  seemed  rather  absent,  and  once  or  twice  he 
called  her  "  Inez,"  at  which  she  smiled  and  her  mother 
looked  grave. 

It  was  very  slowly  that  the  truth  dawned  upon  Flor- 
ence; but  she  could  not  avoid  seeing  it  at  length, 
Walter's  visits  to  the  cottage  became  less  frequent  —  ha 
seemed  to  live  at  the  Hall.  She  had  met  him  riding  with 
Inez  in  the  green  lanes,  and  they  had  pulled  up  and 
spoken  to  her.  But  on  such  occasions  she  did  not  liki 
the  light  on  the  beautiful  face  or  the  air  of  confusion 
with  which  her  lover  met  her. 

Outwardly  things  went  on  as  usual;  but  in  reality 
Walter  had  awakened  to  the  knowledge  that  he  loved  the 

O 

beautiful  Inez  de  Burgh  with  a  devotion  to  which  he 


conld  set  no  limit.  The  affection  he  had  entertained  for 
Florence  was  as  different  from  his  overpowering  all- 
mastering  love  as  was  moonlight  from  sunlight.  He 
would  have  given  a  year  of  his  life  for  one  loving 
word  from  the  haughty  lips.  It  was  first  love,  without 
reason,  without  control,  without  anything  save  its  own 
violence.  Still  no  word  did  he  utter  of  love  to  the  one 
girl,  while  materially  he  did  not  change  to  the  other. 

But  Florence  saw  it  all.  The  gentle  faithful  heart  was 
stung  to  the  quick.  His  love  had  been  her  life,  her  hope, 
her  all ;  her  mother  had  thought  very  much  of  it,  and 
had  rejoiced  in  the  future  that  she  believed  her  child 
would  enjoy.  Ah,  why  had  this  radiant  beauty,  with  he* 
proud  face,  come  to  take  her  lover  from  her  ?  Florence 
wept  passionate  bitter  tears.  Surely  Miss  De  Burgh, 
with  her  ancient  lineage,  her  noble  name,  and  her  bright 
loveliness,  might  have  been  happy  with  one  of  the  peers 
she  had  talked  about !  Why  must  she  step  in  and  lure 
Walter  from  her  ? 

The  calm  face  grew  pale  and  sad,  the  dove-like  eyes 
had  a  deep  shadow  beneath  them,  there  was  a  ring  of 
pain  in  every  word  that  fell  from  her  lips.  Not  that  she 
thought  yet  of  the  worst  that  might  happen.  She  was 
jealous  and  unhappy,  and,  though  she  visited  Inez,  at 
times  there  was  something  like  anger  springing  up  in  her 
heart  for  her  beautiful  rival. 

While  affaire  were  in  this  unsatisfactory  state  a  new 
career  was  dawning  for  Walter  Bohun.  A  message  came 
one  morning  summoning  him  to  London,  where  Sir 
Thornton  lay  dying  at  his  town-house.  He  had  wished 
•at  last  to  see  his  long-neglected  heir. 

There  was  but  little  time  for  uttering  farewells.  Wal- 
ter went  first  to  the  cottage  and  told  his  news. 


HIS  BROKEN   PROMISE.  SS 

**I  have  not  a  moment  to  spare,  Florence,"  he  said 
*  I  shall  write  to  you  however  when  I  reach  London. 
Good-bye,  dear ;  '*  and  he  put  his  lips  lightly  to  hers. 

Only  the  day  before  he  had  kissed  with  far  greater 
srdor  a  rosebud  that  Inez  had  touched ! 

"Good-bye,  "Walter,"  she  responded  quietly:  and  her 
lips  quivered  and  her  eyes  grew  dim  with  tears  as  she 
spoke. 

Then  he  hurried  to  the  Hall.  Sir  Hubert  entered 
heartily  into  his  affairs.  Inez  stood  listening,  with  a 
dreamy  softened  expression  on  her  face.  Sir  Hubert  left 
them  to  say  adieu  while  he  ordered  the  dog-cart,  intending 
Ut  drive  Walter  to  the  station  himself. 

"So  you  are  going  to  London,  Mr.  Bohun?"  said  Inez. 

"Yes;  let  me  take  one  kind  word  with  me  to  cheer 
Afld  brighten  the  way." 

"  What  would  you  like  me  to  say  ? "  she  asked  smilingly. 

His  face  grew  pale  with  emotion. 

"  Say,  *  Good-bye,  dear  Walter ;  I  will  try  to  like  you.' " 

She  repeated  the  words  slowly  after  him,  a  deep  blush 
covering  her  face. 

"  Will  you  try  to  like  me,  Inez  ! "  he  whispered. 

K  Perhaps  I  do  so  now,"  she  replied.  "  We  are  going 
to  London  next  month,  and  then  I  may  tell  you  more 
about  it." 

"Now,  Walter,"  cried  Sir  Hubert,  "are  you  ready?  n 

Walter  pressed  his  lips  upon  the  hand  that  he  held  in 
his  and  went  away,  the  music  of  her  words  ringing  in  his 
ears. 

Some  weeks  afterwards  the  family  at  the  Hall  left 
Oulstoa  to  spend  the  end  of  the  season  in  London.  Inez 
called  to  say  good-bye  to  Florence  and  Mrs.  Hamilton. 
She  thought  the  former  cold  and  constrained  in  he* 


$£  HIS  BBOEEN   PBOMISE. 

manner,  and  so  did  not,  as  she  had  intended,  ask  her  to 
write  to  her  while  she  remained  in  town. 

The  village  seemed  quiet  and  deserted  now,  and  poor 
Florence  began  to  count  the  days  which  must  elapse 
6efore  her  lover  returned.  She  little  thought  that  "Walter 

Bohun  and  herself  would  never  meet  in  Oulstou  again. 
*•*#*## 

Long  dreary  months  passed,  and  there  was  as  yet  no 
time  fixed  for  Walter's  return.  Neither  had  the  De 
Burgh  family  given  any  intimation  of  coming  to  the 
Hall. 

Florence  wrote  to  Walter,  and  he  replied.  His  letters 
were  always  kind  and  affectionate,  very  much  like  the 
letters  of  a  brother  to  a  sister  •  but,  if  Florence  had 
known  the  world  better,  she  would  have  recognised  that 
there  was  little  in  them  that  bespoke  the  lover.  Of  late 
however  even  these  epistles  had  grown  rarer.  Sometimes 
two  or  three  weeks  would  elapse,  and  then  a  hurried 
little  note  would  come  saying  how  much  the  writer  was 
engaged. 

But  Florence  could  not  avoid  noting  that  there  was 
never  any  mention  of  their  marriage  or  of  the  future 
that  lie  had  once  painted  for  her  in  such  bright  colors. 
Nor  did  he  speak  of  his  prospects,  his  new  estates,  or  the 
houses  that  at  last  were  his.  It  was  not  a  cheerful  state  of 
affairs,  and  the  girl's  face  began  to  look  very  grave ;  there 
was  no  light  of  happiness  shining  now  in  the  clear  eyes. 

One  morning — it  was  the  last  hopeful  one  of  poor 
Florence's  life  —  the  welcome  sound  of  the  postman's 
knock  was  heard  at  the  cottage  door.  Mrs.  Hamilton 
took  the  letters  from  the  servant.  There  was  one  for 
Florence  in  Walter's  handwriting.  Thinking  it  would 
afford  some  pleasure  to  her  daughter,  who  had  seemed 


HIS  BROKEN   PROMISE.  25 

neither  well  nor  happy  of  late,  Mrs.  Hamilton  took  it  up 
to  her  room.  Florence  was  still  asleep,  so  her  mother 
laid  the  letter  on  the  pillow,  where  she  would  see  it  on 
awakening. 

One  hour  passed  after  another,  and  Florence  did  not 
come  down  smiling  and  bright  as  Mrs.  Hamilton  expected. 
At  last  she  went  up  again  and  softly  entered  the  room. 

Florence  was  lying  still  and  motionless,  the  letter 
opened  and  clasped  in  her  hands.  On  drawing  nearer 
Mrs.  Hamilton,  to  her  great  alarm,  saw  that  her  child  was 
not  sleeping,  but  had  become  insensible. 

All  else  was  forgotten  in  the  anxiety  of  the  moment; 
but,  when  the  clear  blue  eyes  had  opened  once  more  and 
the  colorless  lips  had  parted  to  utter  faintly  something 
about  her  letter,  Mrs.  Hamilton  bethought  herself  of  it, 
and,  picking  it  up  from  the  floor  where  it  had  fallen,  she 
read  the  words  that  had  been  as  a  death-blow  to  the 
trembling  girl  before  her. 

"  Florence,"  the  letter  began,  "  I  cannot,  dare  not  ask 
you  to  forgive  me.  I  am  not  worthy  of  you,  and  never 
was.  When  I  asked  you  a  year  ago  to  be  my  wife,  I 
thought  I  loved  you  as  a  man  loves  the  woman  that  he 
chooses  from  all  the  world  to  share  his  fate.  Now  I 
know  that  my  feeling  for  you  was  that  of  quiet  sincere 
friendship  and  nothing  more.  I  have  met  one  whom  I 
love  as  I  can  never  love  another.  Florence,  do  not  hate 
or  despise  me  if  I  tell  you  that,  when  you  read  this  letter, 
Inea  ae  Burgh  will  be  my  wife.  Fate  and  love  have  been 
too  strong  for  me ;  still  I  shall  never  be  truly  happy  until 
I  know  that  you  forgive  my  broken  promise.  Were  you 
less  good,  less  patient,  less  heroic,  I  would  not  expect  it; 
biit,  knowing  you  well,  I  venture  to  plead  for  pardon. 
You  will  be  happier  as  you  are  than  if  you  had  shared 


26  HIS  BROKEN  PROMISE. 

the  life  of  one  so  inferior  to  you  and  so  unworthy  of  you 
as  myself." 

It  was  a  cruel,  almost  heartless,  written  by  a  man  whc 
knew  not  how  to  excuse  his  breech  of  honor.  Involun 
tarily  Mrs.  Hamilton's  hand  tightened  on  the  paper. 

"My  poor  fatherless  child!"  she  cried.  "If  we  had 
had  some  one  to  protect  us,  he  would  not  have  dared  to 
treat  you  so ! " 

She  felt  the  hottest  indignation  against  the  man  Tvho 
had  trampled  the  life  and  love  of  her  darling  child 
beneath  his  feet.  They  had  not  sought  him ;  he  had 
come  voluntarily  and  asked  Florence  to  be  his  wife.  He 
had  taught  the  poor  girl  to  love  him,  he  had  made  every 
•wish  and  hope  of  her  heart  his  own,  and  now  a  fairer 
face  had  taken  him  from  her.  He  had  broken  the  most 
solemn  promise  a  man  could  make  :  what  was  to  atone  to 
her  child,  what  was  to  heal  her  bruised,  bleeding  heart  ? 
For  a  few  minutes  the  mother  felt  inclined  to  proclaim 
her  wrongs  to  the  world,  to  cover  the  traitor  with  shame 
and  confusion. 

"Mamma,"  said  a  feeble  voice,  "do  not  look  so  angry  : 
it  was  my  fault.  I  ought  to  have  seen  long  ago  that 
Walter  loved  her  best." 

"  Do  not  say  such  things,  my  dear ! "  cried  her  mother 
indignantly.  "  He  is  a  treacherous " 

"Mamma,"  interrupted  the  poor  girl,  "you  •will  kill 
me  if  you  speak  harshly  of  him  !  I  do  not  think  he  is  so 
much  to  blame.  He  had  seen  no  one  but  me  when  he 
thought  he  loved  me ;  now  he  has  mingled  with  the  world, 
and  finds  I  am  not  suited  to  him.  I  am  not  beautifu1 
and  gifted."  Here  the  speaker's  voice  faltered,  her  lips 
quivered,  and  the  girl's  wounded  heart  found  relief  in  • 
passionate  burst  of  tears. 


HIS  BROKEN   PROMISE.  27 

Mrs.  Hamilton  was  obliged  for  the  present  to  control 
her  hot  angry  indignation;  she  saw  that  Florence  could 
not  bear  to  listen  to  it. 

Soon  after  the  unhappy  girl  lay  ill  on  a  couch  and 
heard  the  pealing  of  the  bells  rung  in  honor  of  the 
marriage  of  Miss  De  Burgh,  which  was  celebrated  in 
London.  For  days  afterwards  she  rose  and  listened  with 
an  aching  heart  to  the  goseip  of  the  many  visitors  who 
came  to  discuss  the  wedding.  Ah,  how  thankful  she  was 
now  that  her  fatal  engagement  had  been  kept  so  profound 
a  secret!  How  little  the  unconscious  callers  who  won- 
dered at  Mrs.  Hamilton's  want  of  sympathy  with  the 
topic  that  engrossed  them  guessed  that  the  pale  girl  who 
listened  so  quietly  to  their  comments  had  been  the 
promised  wife  of  the  man  whom  they  praised  so  warmly ! 

"  It  is  such  a  suitable  match,"  they  agreed  ;  Miss  De 
Burgh  is  so  beautiful,  and  Sir  Walter  so  rich ! " 

They  were  astonished  when  Mrs.  Hamilton,  unable  to 
bear  the  conversation  any  longer,  said  angrily — 

"I  wouM  not  have  a  son  of  mine  marry  a  girl  de- 
scended, as  Inez  de  Burgh  is,  from  a  gipsy-mother.  He 
will  live  to  repent  it,  as  you  will  see." 

Dr.  Mar<sh  called  upon  them.  He  had  felt  unwilling 
at  first  to  see  the  girl  whom  his  pupil  had  so  cruelly 
wronged.  He  was  a  man  of  unblemished  honor;  he 
considered  Walter  more  criminal  even  than  if  he  had 
stolen  Mrs.  Hamilton's  purse  or  forged  her  name.  It  was 
reluctantly  that  he  went  into  the  house  upon  which  so 
dark  a  shadow  had  fallen. 

But  he  did  not  see  Florence ;  the  gentle  heart,  though 
strong  to  bear,  was  crushed  and  broken.  She  had 
gathered  together  every  memento  of  her  betrayed  love, 
every  dower  which  Walter  had  given  her,  and  which  she 


28  HIS  BROKEN  PROMISE. 

had  carefully  preserved,  every  letter  he  had  written,  the 
last  violets  they  had  gathered  together  in  the  fir  wood, 
and  had  made  a  parcel  of  them  and  on  the  inner  wrap- 
ping she  had  written  in  a  trembling  hand,  "I  forgive 
vou.  Heaven  bless  you  and  make  you  happy!"  Then 
she  sent  it  to  the  young  Baronet;  and  after  this  the 
sorely-tried  spirit  gave  way.  "When  the  Rector  called  to 
express  his  indignation  and  his  sympathy,  poor  Florence 
lay  fighting  hard  for  dear  life. 

It  was  well,  the  Rector  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  agreed,  that 
the  engagement  had  never  been  made  public,  and,  out  of 
consideration  for  the  unhappy  girl,  they  decided  that  "Wal- 
ter Bohun  should  be  allowed  to  go  unpunished  and  the 
secret  should  remain  a  secret  still ;  so  that  no  one  in  Ouls- 
ton  knew  that  Florence  had  loved,  had  been  betrothed  to, 
and  forsaken  by  Sir  Walter  Bohun. 

Very  slowly  the  girl  regained  health  and  strength  and 
took  up  the  duties  of  life  once  more ;  but  she  was 
changed.  A  sweet  patient  gravity  never  left  her;  the 
Buffering  through  which  she  hud  passed  seemed  to  have 
robbed  her  of  youth  and  all  interest  in  life.  No  false 
hope  deceived  her.  She  know  that  the  one  love  of  her 
life  had  been  shattered,  that  the  joys  of  existence  were 
ended;  but  she  tried  bravely  to  live  down  tie  past  and 
to  devote  her  thoughts  to  the  duties  of  the  present  and 
the  future. 

Four  months  after  the  marriage  a  rumor  came  to 
Oulston  that  Sir  "Walter  and  Lady  Bohun  were  about  to 
visit  Burgh  Hall,  to  spend  some  weeks  there.  The 
Rector,  on  hearing  the  news,  at  once  informed  Mrs. 
Hamilton. 

"Mother/*  sain  Florence  when  the  Rector  had  taken 
his  departure,  "  I  have  forgiven  him,  but  do  not  lot  me 


29 

«^e  him  again.  I  must  not  look  upon  his  face  or  hear 
his  voice.  Let  me  go  away  from  here  ;  it  would  kill  me 
to  stay." 

Accordingly  the  pleasant  little  home  was  broken  up, 
and  the  mother  and  daughter  went  to  London  to  reside 
with  a  cousin  of  Mrs.  Hamilton's. 

It  was  with  no  little  embarrassment  that  Sir  Walter 
Bohun  inquired  of  Doctor  Marsh  how  Mrs.  Hamilton 
and  Florence  were. 

"They  have  left  Oulston,"  answered  the  Rector  coolly ; 
l'{  and,  if  I  may  express  an  opinion,  Sir  Walter,  I  should 
i?.ay  that  they  would  not  consider  themselves  honored, 
by  hearing  that  you  have  mentioned  them  ? " 

The  Rector  could  not  forgive  his  old  pupil,  and  cold- 
ne^s  and  restraint  marked  all  their  interviews. 

"  I  should  never  have  returned  here,"  said  Sir  Walter 
to  him  one  day — "  I  dreaded  seeing  the  place  again  ;  but 
Lady  Bohun  had  fixed  her  mind  upon  it,  and  1  could  not 
iind  an  excuse  for  avoiding  it." 

Inez,  on  the  first  day  of  her  arrival,  had  driven  up  to 
the  cottage,  and  great  was  her  surprise  when  she  found 
that  her  friends  had  departed  without  leaving  any  message 
for  her. 

"It  is  very  strange!"  she  remarked  to  Sir  Walter. 
*'  I  thought  they  were  fixtures  here.  How  will  that  quiet 
thoughtful  Florence  like  London,  I  wonder?" 

An  expression  of  pain  passed  over  her  husband's 
handsome  face ;  but  he  made  no  reply ;  and  Lady  Bohun, 
in  the  multiplicity  of  her  affairs,  soon  forgot  all  about  the 
occurrence. 

Ten  years  passed.  Death  had  robbed  poor  Florence  of 
her  mother  three  years  after  they  went  to  London.  The 
girl  continued  to  reside  with  her  cousin;  but  she  felt  that 


SO  HIS   BROKEN 

her  life  was  void,  her  heart  empty.  She  had  no  one  in 
whom  she  could  confide,  for  her  cousin  was  an  eccentric 
maiden-lady  wedded  to  her  own  habits  and  old-fashioned 
ways. 

Florence  felt  keenly  the  want  of  some  object  to  give 
her  an  interest  in  life.  She  had  never  loved  again. 
During  her  mother's  life  she  refused  two  eligible  offers, 
her  heart  being  dead  to  love ;  but  that  did  not  prevent 
her  from  longing  for  some  occupation  which  should 
engross  her  time  and  her  thoughts.  She  found  it  at  last. 

The  British  Army  was  fighting  against  terrible  odds  on 
the  burning  plains  of  Egypt,  and  the  climate  and  the 
few  fierce  encounters  had  already  laid  many  a  brave 
fellow  low.  The  hospitals  of  Cairo  were  full  of  sick  and 
wounded,  and  experienced  nurses  were  sadly  needed. 
The  want  had  only  to  be  known  to  be  supplied,  and  within 
a  few  weeks  of  the  first  cry  for  help  a  band  of  noble 
women  volunteered  their  services.  Among  that  brave 
band  of  nurses  who  left  England  for  Epypt  was  Florence 
Hamilton.  Thankful  at  last  to  have  found  an  interest  in 
life,  thankful  that  she  could  be  of  use,  she  left  old 
England  without  a  sigh  of  regret. 

And  now,  in  her  new  sphere  of  life,  Florence  was,  as 
far  as  she  could  be,  happy.  She  was  one  of  the  most 
skilful  and  energetic  nurses  in  the  devoted  band.  She 
never  wearied  ;  she  soothed  the  last  hours  of  many  a  dying 
hero ;  she  never  shrank  from  any  duty,  however  painful. 
The  sick  men  looked  up  to  her  with  a  grateful  reverent 
affection.  Her  gentle  voice  was  often  heard  in  the 
solemn  qnietnde  of  the  night  repeating  the  prayers  the 
soldiers  had  learnt  at  their  mother's  knees.  Florence 

found  her  mission  at  last. 

«  *  *  *  * 


HIS  BROKEN  PROMISE.  31 

Sir  Walter  Bohun  often  said  that  fate  had  not  been 
kind  to  him.  He  had  been  engaged  to  one  of  the 
sweestest  and  gentlest  girls  on  earth,  and  he  had  basely 
deserted  her.  He  had  loved  a  brilliant  coquettish  beauty 
whom  he  had  made  his  wife  ;  and  she,  by  her  whims  and 
caprices,  her  wilful  temper  and  haughty  spirit,  made  his 
life  miserable  and  a  burden  to  him. 

Sir  Walter  and  Lady  Bohun  had  never  been  a  model 
couple.  When  the  first  bloom  of  her  wonderful  beauty 
had  disappeared,  when  the  bewitching  graceful  manner 
that  had  captivated  him  had  become  more  familiar,  Sir 
Walter  began  to  perceive  that  beauty  had  been  his  wife's 
chief  charm.  He  had  never  given  a  thought  as  to 
whether  she  possessed  the  more  enduring  charms  which, 
outlive  mere  loveliness  of  face.  He  had  been  attracted  by 
her  beauty  ;  but  he  found  now  that  mere  charm  of  face 
was  not  all  that  a  man  required  in  his  wife  and  the 
mistress  of  his  house.  "Society"  however  considered 
Lady  Bohim  clever.  She  could  talk  brilliantly  of  the 
many  -  countries  she  had  visited;  she  had  the  gift  of 
repartee  in  no  small  measure ;  her  Ions  mots  were 
repeated  and  extolled.  And  her  beauty  procured  for  her 
universal  admiration.  Lady  Bohun  became,  in  short,  one 
of  the  reigning  belles  in  the  world  of  fashion.  No  ball 
or  party  was  considered  complete  without  her,  no  tableaux 
vivants  or  charades  could  be  arranged  without  the  aid  of 
her  expressive  face  and  and  graceful  figure. 

In  the  second  year  of  his  mariied  life  Sir  Walter 
Bohun  found  himself  a  complete  nonentity  in  his  own 
house.  Everything  and  every  one  in  it  were  made  sub- 
servient to  her  ladyship's  whims.  She  seldom  spent  an 
evening  at  home;  if  her  husband  accompanied  her  in  her 
many  engagements,  she  smiled  amiably — if  he  did  not, 
she  went  aione. 


32  HIS  BBOKKN    PROMISE. 

Lady  Bohun,  in  fact,  had  no  idea  of  the  true  meaning 
ci  the  word  "home;"  she  would  have  considered  an 
evening  spent  alone  with  her  husband  as  one  full  of  ennui 
— indeed  she  boasted  that  she  had  no  liking  for  "that 
kind  of  thin^  *'  Domestic  comfort  was  almost  entirely 
unknown  to  the  young  Baronet.  They  disagreed  contin- 
ually on  this  one  subject ;  and,  when  Sir  Walter  did  ask 
his  wife  to  give  up  an  engagement  and  remain  at  home 
with  him,  she  always  refused.  Then  he  would  say  that 
she  did  not  love  him,  and  the  wilful  beauty  would  retort 
that  he  was  jealous  because  she  was  admired. 

During  the  first  years  of  their  married  life,  while  the 
glamour  of  her  beauty  still  held  him,  these  quarrels  were 
soon  made  up ;  but  more  serious  faults  began  to  show 
themselves.  The  world  spoke  lightly  of  Lady  Bohun  and 
commented  upon  her  in  a  way  that  her  husband  could  not 
bear  to  hear. 

Once  and  once  only  Sir  "Walter  appealed  to  Sir  Hubert 
de  Burgh  ;  but  the  horror  that  overspread  the  father's 
face  filled  his  heart  with  sorrow  and  dismay.  He  knew 
that  the  old  man  dreaded  lest  some  unhappy  fate  should 
overtake  her,  even  as  an  unhappy  fate  had  overtaken  the 
mother.  So  the  young  husband  resolved  to  wait  and 
hope. 

Ah,  how  often  and  with  how  keen  a  pang  his  thoughts 
turned  to  his  first  lost  love,  the  gentle  girl  whom  he  had 
wronged  in  so  cowardly  a  manner !  He  recognised  her 
worth  now,  he  knew  that  his  life  would  have  been  crowned 
with  honor  had  she  shared  it  As  it  was,  his  time  was 
spent  in  watching  the  woman  he  had  put  in  her  place. 
There  was  an  end  now  to  his  ambitious  dreams.  With 
Florence  he  had  planned  his  future  as  far  as  he  could  see ; 
be  had  longed  to  enter  Parliament,  to  initiate  those 


HIS  BROKEN   PROMISE.  38 

reforms  which  he  urged  so  ably  in  the  daily  press  and 
the  leading  magazines.  Inez  however  disliked  all  such 
notions,  and,  whenever  he  broached  the  subject,  he  was 
met  with  storm  of  objections  and  reproacnes.  His 
ambition  was  dying  away.  Ah,  how  often  and  how  sadly 
he  thought  of  the  quiet  village  home  where  he  had  been 
so  happy!  How  often  and  how  vainly  he  wished  that  he 
had  been  true  to  Florence  and  to  himself ! 

At  length  death  took  Sir  Hubert,  who  to  the  last  was 
hopeful  for  his  child. 

"  She  is  so  young  and  so  beautiful,  Walter,"  he  said, 
"  that  you  must  have  patience  with  her,  I  spoiled  her ; 
but  she  will  settle  down  soon." 

The  old  Baronet  however  had  been  buried  for  more 
than  five  years,  and  Inez  had  not  settled  down  yet.  On 
the  contrary,  with  her  increase  of  wealth  her  whims  also 
Beemed  to  increase.  Her  life  was  a  continual  round  of 
entertainments.  Rest  and  repose  seemed  farther  off  than 
ever,  and  Sir  Walter  began  to  despair. 

A  darker  shadow  was  creeping  over  his  home.  Rumor 
circulated  strange  tales  of  the  beautiful  Lady  Bohun: 
another  name  was  linked  with  hers.  Virtuous  matrons 
looked  grave  when  the  scandel  reached  their  ears,  and 
declared  they  had  "  always  said  so." 

Sir  Walter  grew  desperate,  and  declared  that  she 
should  accompany  him  to  his  country  seat,  and  so  put  an 
end  to  all  gossip  and  idle  reports.  Inez  flatly  refused  to 
consent  to  any  such  arrangements,  and  said  that,  if  her 
husband  went,  he  must  go  alone.  It  was  a  fierce  contest, 
and  the  end  was  a  sad  one.  When  the  day  dawned  that 
was  to  see  the  departure  of  Sir  Walter  and  Lady  Bohun 
for  their  country  abode,  Inez  had  left  her  husband's  roo£ 
eever  to  seek  its  shelter  again. 


S4  HIS   BROKEN    PROMISE. 

From  that  day  the  world  of  fashion  in  which  she  had 
played  such  a  prominent  part  knew  her  no  more. 
Strange  stories  were  told  of  her  fate  later  on  ;  but  in  life 
ehe  never  met  her  unhappy  husband  again. 

They  broke  the  news  of  his  wife's  flight  to  Sir  "Walter 
as  gently  as  they  could,  for  he  was  a  proud  man,  and  he 
had  loved  the  wilful  erring  woman  very  dearly.  But. 
gently  as  the  blow  fell,  it  crushed  him.  The  stain  of 
dishonor  was  more  than  he  could  bear. 

To  hide  his  sorrow  and  disgrace,  the  Baronet  hastened 
to  his  country  residence.  There  he  would  try  to  forget 
her,  to  forget  the  shame  she  had  brought  upon  his  name. 
Never  again  could  Sir  Walter  hold  up  his  head  among 
his  fellow-men. 

Then  the  memory  of  his  wronged  innocent  love  came 
back  to  him  with  increased  bitterness.  He  felt  the  retri- 
bution was  just;  he  had  forsaken  her,  and  now,  in  his 
turn  he  had  been  cruelly  betrayed.  He  remembered  the 
patient  face  and  the  quiet  love-lit  eyes,  and  he  acknowl- 
edged in  the  bitterness  of  his  soul  that  they  were  full  of 
a  higher  beauty  than  the  dazzling  charms  chat  had  led 
him  astray. 

He  recalled  the  evening  in  the  fir  wood  when  they  first 
met  Inez  de  Burgh,  and  how  poor^ Florence  had  shivered 
and  had  a  foreboding  of  evil ;  she  had  fancied  that  the 
song  of  the  rippling  brook  changed  to  a  wail  of  sorrow. 
How  sad  the  course  of  their  lives  had  become  since  then! 
Full  of  sorrow  and  repentance,  he  admitted  his  fault,  and 
confessed  that  the  punishment  was  just. 

What  should  he  do  with  his  life?  This  was  Sir 
Walter's  constant  thought.  He  could  not  enter  the  world 
of  fashion  again.  He  shrank  from  all  contact  with  those 
who  had  known  him  and  were  familiar  with  his  story. 


HIS  BROKEN   PROMISE.  35 

Fate  solved  the  problem  for  him.  On  opening  his 
letters  one  morning,  he  found  one  from  the  editor  of  a 
leading  daily  journal,  offering  him  the  post  of  war- 
correspondent.  Here  was  the  very  opening  he  would 
have  desired  above  all  others.  He  was  considered  a  good 
descriptive  writer,  and  his  knowledge  of  all  things  mili- 
tary —  he  had  served  in  the  Militia  and  he  had  at  one  time 
seriously  thought  of  entering  the  Army  —  was  sufficiently 
wide  for  the  purpose.  On  the  desert  plains  of  Egypt, 
amid  the  din  of  battle,  he  would  at  least  find  occupation 
and  forgetfulness. 

Three  days  later  Sir  Walter  Bohun  was  aboard  the 
t,  bound  for  Alexandria. 


Florence  Hamilton  was  busy  among  her  patients  when 
the  lady-superintendent  of  the  hospital  joined  her,  and  in 
A  low  voice  requested  her  attendance  in  another  ward. 

"  I  want  you,"  said  that  lady,  "  to  assist  elsewhere  for 
a  little  while.  The  patient  I  shall  place  under  your  care 
will  require  constant  attention  while  he  lives." 

"  Is  the  case  so  serious  ?  "  asked  Florence. 

"Yes,  the  poor  fellow  is  fatally  wounded.  The 
doctors  were  talking  of  him  this  morning,  and  highly 
praising  his  reports.  It  is  Sir  Walter  Bohun  ;  they  call 
him  the  *  reckless  corespondent.'  " 

It  was  in  the  dim  hospital  ward,  with  the  life-blood 
oozing  down  his  pallid  face,  that  Florence  saw  again  the 
lover  of  her  youth  ;  and  her  heart  went  out  to  him  now 
as  it  had  never  done  in  the  olden  times,  when  his  love 
was  ail  her  own. 

She  had  heard  that  he  was  among  the  newspaper 
correspondents  ;  she  had  heard  too  of  his  reckless  dis- 
regard of  his  personal  safety  while  getting  to  the  front  *a 


3t  HIS   BROKEN   PKOMISE. 

quest  of  news;  but  she  did  not  know  that  the  dying 
man  before  her  had  been  deserted  by  his  wife.  She 
gazed  on  him  for  a  moment  with  unutterable  love  in  her 
wistful  eyes ;  then  she  was  again  the  cairn  collected  nurse. 
She  assisted  at  the  operation  that  the  doctor  preformed 
without  the  least  hope  of  its  success.  She  heard  a  faint 
moan  from  the  man's  parched  lips  as  his  whole  frame 
quivered  with  agony.  Something  like  a  dream  came  to 
her  then,  from  which  she  was  awakened  by  the  lady-super- 
intendent's low  firm  voice. 

"  Miss  Hamilton,  I  leave  you  in  charge,"  she  was  say- 
ing. "  It  will  not  be  for  long,  I  fear." 

Florence  knelt  by  the  dying  man.  Once  or  twice  she 
distinguished  the  words  that  fell  from  the  colorless  lips. 
"  Inez  "  was  one,  and,  oh,  surely  she  also  heard  her  own 
name!  Surely  the  faint  voice  murmured  something 
about  forgiveness ! 

He  opened  his  eyes  at  last,  and  met  the  wistful  gaze 
bent  upon  him. 

"  Florence,"  he  whispered  faintly,  "  is  it  really  you  ? " 
"  Yes,  dear  Walter,"  she  answered.     "  I  am  one  of  the 
nurses  here,  and  am  taking  care  of  you." 
"  1  am  dying,"   he  murmured  faintly. 
"  I  will  do  anything  you  wish,"  she  said  in  answer  to 
his  looks  rather  than   his  words.     "If  you  will  leave  a 
message  with  me  for  Inez,  it  shall  be  faithfully  deliv- 
ered." 

A  slight  flush,  weak  as-  he  was,  passed  over  his  pale 
face. 

"Inez  deserted  me,  Florence,"  he  said,  "more  than  a 
year  ago.  I  have  a  request  to  make — let  me  make  it 
while  I  can,  for  my  strength  is  fast  failing.  I  have  to 
make  it  to  you.  Oh,  tell  me,  my  darling,  that  you  for- 
give my  broken  promise!" 


HIS  BKOKKN   PROMISE.  87 

But  he  did  not  hear  the  response ;  a  sudden  light  came 
?.nto  the  wan  face,  to  be  succeeded  by  an  ashen  palenesa 
and  Waiter  Bohun  was  no  longer  among  the  living.  It 
was  to  his  dead  face  that  Florence  for  one  minute  put 
her  own  while  she  murmured  that  he  had  been  forgiven 
lonp  since. 

«  •  •  •  •  t 

They  buried  the  dashing  young  war-correspondent  in 
that  Eastern  land  and  a  small  stone  marks  the  resting-place 
of  the  last  of  the  Bohuns. 

Carlshill  is  in  strange  hands  now ;  but  they  show  the 
portrait  there  of  the  beautiful  woman  who  deserted  her 
husband,  and  they  tell  of  his  untimely  death  in  the  little 
hospital  at  Cairo. 

Florence  Hamilton  returned  to  England  at  the  close  of 
the  campaign.  She  has  a  noble  purpose  now  in  life,  and 
she  is  fulfilling  it.  The  sick  and  the  poor  are  her  care ; 
her  mission  lies  amongst  them,  and  she  loves  her  work 


EDNA'S  SACRIFICE 


IT  WAS  a  cold  night  in  September.  For  three  days 
the  rain  had  fallen  almost  unceasingly.  It  had  been 
impossible  for  us  to  get  out;  and  no  visitors  had 
been  in.  Everything  looked  dreary  enough,  and  we 
felt  so,  truly.  Of  course  the  stoves  were  not  prepared 
for  use;  and  this  night  we  (that  is,  Nell,  Floy,  Aunt 
Edna,  and  myself)  were  huddled  in  the  corners  of  the 
sofa  and  arm-chairs,  wrapped  in  our  shawls.  We 
were  at  our  wits'  end  for  something  to  while  the  hours 
away.  We  had  read  everything  that  was  readable; 
played  until  we  fancied  the  piano  sent  forth  a  wail  of 
complaint,  and  begged  for  rest;  were  at  the  backgam- 
mon board  until  our  arms  ached;  and  I  had  given  imi- 
tations of  celebrated  actresses,  until  I  was  hoarse,  and 
Nell  declared  I  was  in  danger  of  being  sued  for  scan- 
dal. What  more  could  we  do?  To  dispel  the  drowsi- 
ness that  was  stealing  over  me,  I  got  up,  walked  up 
and  down  the  floor,  and  then  drew  up  the  blind,  and 
gazed  out  into  the  deserted  street.  Not  a  footfall  to 
be  heard,  neither  man's  nor  beast's;  nothing  but  pat- 
ter, patter,  patter.  At  length,  after  standing  fully 
fifteen  minutes  —  oh,  joyful  sound!  —  a  coming  foot- 
step, firm  and  quick.  My  first  thought  was  that 
those  steps  would  stop  at  our  door.  But,  directly 
after,  I  felt  that  very  improbable  for  who  was  there 
that  would  come  such  a  night?  Papa  was  up  north 
with  mamma;  Nell  and  Floy  were  visiting  Aunt  Edna 

8 


Edna's  Sacrifice 

me,  the  only  ones  home,  save  the  servants. 
Neither  of  us  had  as  yet  a  lover  so  devoted  or  s©  de- 
mented as  to  come  out,  if  he  had  anywhere  to  stay  in. 

On  and  past  went  the  steps.  Turning  away,  I 
<kew  down  the  blind,  and  said:  "Some  one  must  be 
ffl,  and  that  was  the  doctor,  surely:  for  no  one  else 
would  go  out,  only  those  from  direst  necessity  sent.'* 

A  deep  sigh  escaped  Aunt  Edna's  lips,  and  although 
partially  shaded  by  her  hand,  I  could  see  the  shadow 
on  the  beautiful  face  had  deepened. 

Why  my  aunt  had  never  married  was  a  mystery  to 
vie,  for  she  was  lovable  in  every  way,  and  must  have 
been  very  beautiful  in  her  youth.  Thirty-six  she 
would  be  next  May-day,  she  had  told  me.  Thirty-sis 
seemed  to  me,  just  sixteen,  a  very  great  many  years 
to  have  lived.  But  aunt  always  was  young  to  us; 
and  the  hint  of  her  being  an  old  maid  was  always  re- 
sented, very  decidedly,  by  all  her  nieces. 

"Aunt  Edna,"  I  said,  "tell  us  a  story  —  a  love- 
story,  please." 

"  Oh,  little  one,  you  have  read  so  many!  Aad  what 
can  I  tell  you  more?"  she  answered,  gently. 

"Oh,  aunty,  I  want  a  tnw  story!  Do,  darling 
aunty,  tell  us  your  own.  Tell  us  why  you  are  blessing 
our  home  with  your  presence,  instead  of  that  of  some 
noble  man,  for  noble  he  must  have  been  to  have  won 
your  heart,  and  —  hush-sh!  Yes,  yes;  I  know  some- 
thing about  somebody,  and  I  must  know  all.  Do, 
.please!" 

'  I  plead  on.  I  always  could  do  more  with  Aunt 
Edna  than  any  one  else.  I  was  named  for  her,  and 
aaany  called  me  like  her  —  "  only  not  nearly  so  pret- 
ty" was  always  added. 


Edna's  Sacrifice  5 

At  last  she  consented,  saying: 

"Dear  girls,  to  only  one  before  have  I  given  my  en- 
tire confidence,  and  that  was  my  mother.  I  scarce 
know  why  I  have  yielded  to  your  persuasions,  little 
Edna,  save  that  this  night,  with  its  gloom  and  rain, 
carries  me  back  long  years,  and  my  heart  seems  to 
join  its  pleading  with  yours,  yearning  to  cast  forth 
some  of  its  fulness,  and  perchance  find  relief  by  pour- 
ing into  your  loving  heart  its  own  sorrows.  But, 
darling,  I  would  not  cast  my  shadow  over  your  fair 
brow,  even  for  a  brief  time." 

With  her  hand  still  shading  her  face,  Aunt  Edna  be- 


"Just  such  a  night  as  this,  eighteen  years  ago,  dear 
child,  my  fate  was  decided.  The  daughter  of  my 
mother's  dearest  friend  had  been  with  us  about  a  year. 
Dearly  we  all  loved  the  gentle  child,  for  scarcely  more 
than  child  she  was  —  only  sixteen.  My  mother  had 
taken  her  from  the  cold,  lifeless  form  of  her  mother 
into  her  own  warm,  loving  heart,  and  she  became  to 
me  as  a  sister.  So  fair  and  frail  she  was!  We  all 
watched  her  with  the  tenderest  care,  guarding  her 
from  all  that  could  chill  her  sensitive  nature  or  wound 
the  already  saddened  heart.  Lilly  was  her  name. 
Oh,  what  a  delicate  while  lily  she  was  when  we  first 
brought  her  to  our  home;  but  after  a  while  she  was 
won  from  her  sorrow,  and  grew  into  a  maiden  of  great 
beauty.  Still,  with  child-like,  winning  ways. 

"Great  wells  of  love  were  in  her  blue  eyes  —  violet 
hue  he  called  them.  Often  I  wondered  if  any  one's 
gaze  would  linger  on  my  dark  eyes  when  hers  were 
near?  Her  pale  golden  hair  was  pushed  off  her  broad 
forehead  and  fell  in  heavy  waves  far  down  below  her 


6  Edna's  Sacrifice 

graceful  shoulders  and  over  her  black  dress.  Small 
delicately  formed  features,  a  complexion  so  fair  and 
clear  that  it  seemed  transparent.  In  her  blue  eyes 
there  was  always  such  a  sad,  wistful  look;  this,  and 
the  gentle  smile  that  ever  hovered  about  her  lips, 
gave  an  expression  of  mingled  sweetness  and  sorrow 
that  was  very  touching.  You  may  imagine  now  how 
beautiful  she  was. 

"Her  mother  had  passed  from  earth  during  the  ab- 
sence of  Lilly's  father.  Across  the  ocean  the  sorrow- 
ful tidings  were  borne  to  him.  He  was  a  naval  officer. 
Lilly  was  counting  the  days  ere  she  should  see  him. 
The  good  news  had  come  that  soon  he  would  be  with 
her.  At  last  the  day  arrived,  but  oh !  what  a  terrible 
sorrow  it  brought!  When  her  heart  was  almost 
bursting  with  joy,  expecting  every  moment  to  be 
clasped  in  those  dear  arms  —  a  telegraphic  dispatch 
was  handed  in.  Eagerly  she  caught  it,  tore  it  open, 
read  —  and  fell  lifeless  to  the  floor. 

"  Oh!  the  fearful,  crushing  words.  We  read,  not  of 
his  coming  to  Lilly,  but  of  his  going  to  her,  his  wife,  in 
heaven.  Yes,  truly  an  orphan  the  poor  girl  was  then. 

"In  vain  proved  all  efforts  to  restore  her  to  con- 
sciousness. Several  times,  when  she  had  before 
fainted,  mother  was  the  only  physician  needed.  But 
that  night  she  shook  her  head  and  said : 

"  'We  must  have  a  doctor,  and  quickly.' 

"  It  was  a  terrible  night.  Our  doctor  was  very  re- 
mote. Your  father  suggested  another,  near  by. 

"Dr.   ,    well,    never   mind   his   name.     Your 

father  said  he  had  lately  known  him,  and  liked  him 
much. 

"Through  the  storm  he  came,  and  by  his  skilful 


Edna's  Sacrifice  7 

treatment  Lilly  was  soon  restored  to  consciousness, 
but  not  to  health.  A  low  nervous  fever  set  in,  and 
many  days  we  watched  with  fearful  hearts.  Ah !  dur- 
ing those  days  I  learned  to  look  too  eagerly  for  the 
doctor's  coming.  Indeed,  he  made  his  way  into  the 
hearts  of  all  in  our  home.  After  the  dreaded  crisis 
had  passed,  and  we  knew  that  Lilly  would  be  spared 
to  us,  the  doctor  told  mother  he  should  have  to  pre- 
scribe for  me.  I  had  grown  pale,  from  confinement  in 
the  sickroom,  and  he  must  take  me  for  a  drive,  that 
the  fresh  air  should  bring  the  roses  back  to  my  cheeks. 
Willingly  mother  consented.  After  that  I  often 
went.  "When  Lilly  was  able  to  come  down-stairs, 
this  greatest  pleasure  of  my  life  then  was  divided 
with  her.  One  afternoon  I  stood  on  the  porch  with 
her,  waiting  while  the  doctor  arranged  something 
about  the  harness. 

"  'Oh!  how  I  wish  it  was  my  time  to  go!'  she  whis- 
pered. 

"  'WeH,  darling,  it  shall  be  your  time.  I  can  go 
tomorrow.  Run,  get  your  hat  and  wrap,'  I  said, 
really  glad  to  give  any  additional  pleasure  to  this 
child  of  many  sorrows. 

"  'No,  no,  that  would  not  be  fair.  And,  Edna, 
don't  you  know  that  tomorrow  I  would  te  so  sorry  if  I 
went  today?  I  do  not  mean  to  be  selfish,  but,  oh, 
indeed,  T  cannot  help  it!  I  am  wishing  every  time  to 
go.  Not  that  I  care  for  a  ride — '  She  hesitated, 
flushed,  and  whispered:  'I  like  to  be  with  my  doc- 
tor. Don't  you,  Edna?  Oh!  I  wish  he  was  my  fa- 
ther, or  brother,  or  cousin — just  to  be  with  us  all  the 
time,  you  know.' 

"  Just  then  the  doctor  came  for  me,  and  I  had  to 


8  Edna's  Sacrifice 

leave  her.     As  we  drove  off  I  looked  back  and 
my  hand  to  her,  saying: 

'*  '  Dear  little  thing !     I  wish  she  was  going  with  us.* 

"  'I  do  not,'  the  doctor  surprised  me  by  saying. 

"I  raised  my  eyes  inquiringly  to  his.  In  those 
beautiful,  earnest  eyes  I  saw  something  that  made  me 
profoundly  happy.  I  could  not  speak.  After  a  mo- 
ment he  added: 

"  '  She  is  a  beautiful,  winning  child,  and  I  enjoy  her 
company.  But  when  with  her,  I  feel  as  if  it  was  my 
duty  to  devote  myself  entirely  to  her  —  in  a  word,  to 
take  care  of  her,  or,  I  should  say,  to  care  for  her  only. 
And  this  afternoon,  of  all  othei  ;,  I  do  not  feel  like 
having  Lilly  with  us.' 

"That  afternoon  was  one  of  the  happiest  of  my 
life.  Although  not  a  word  of  love  passed  his  lips,  I 
knew  it  filled  his  heart,  and  was  for  me.  He  told  me 
of  his  home,  his  relatives,  his  past  life.  Of  his 
mother  he  said: 

"  'When  you  know  her,  you  will  love  her  dearly.* 

"He  seemed  to  be  sure  that  I  should  know  her. 
And  then  —  ah,  well,  I  thought  so  too,  then. 

"  Lilly  was  waiting  for  us  when  we  returned.  He 
chided  her  for  being  out  so  late.  It  was  quite  dark. 
Tears  filled  her  eyes  as  she  raised  them  to  his  and  said: 

"  'Don't  be  angry.  I  could  not  help  watching. 
Oh,  why  did  you  stay  so  long?  I  thought  you  would 
never  come  back.  I  was  afraid  something  had  hap- 
pened —  that  the  horse  had  run  away,  or — 

"  'Angry  I  could  not  be  with  you,  little  one.  But 
I  don't  want  you  to  get  sick  again.  Come,  now,  smile 
away  your  tears  and  fears!  Your  friend  is  safe  aod 
with  you  again,'  the  doctor  answered. 


Edna's  Sacrifice  9 

Taking  her  hand,  he  led  her  into  the  parlor. 

"He  had  not  understood  the  cause  of  her  tears. 
Only  for  him  she  watched  and  wept. 

"  'Do  stay,'  she  plead,  when  her  doctor  was  going. 

"  He  told  her  he  could  not,  then;  there  was  another 
call  he  must  make,  but  would  return  after  a  while. 

"  She  counted  the  minutes,  until  she  should  see  him 
again.  Never  concealing  from  any  of  us  how  dearly 
she  loved  him.  She  was  truly  as  gtiileless  as  a  child  of 
six  years. 

"From  the  first  of  her  acquaintance  with  him,  she 
had  declared  '  her  doctor '  was  like  her  father.  Mother 
too,  admitted,  the  resemblance  was  very  decided. 

"  This  it  was,  I  think,  that  first  made  him  so  dear  to 
her. 

"Several  times,  after  the  doctor  returned  that 
evening,  I  saw  he  sought  opportunity  to  speak  to  me, 
unheard  by  others.  But  Lilly  was  always  near. 

"Ah!  it  was  better  so.  Better  that  from  his  own 
lips  I  heard  not  those  words  he  would  have  spoken. 
Doubly  hard  would  have  been  the  trial.  Oh,  that 
night  when  he  said,  'good-bye!'  He  slipped  in  my 
hand  a  little  roll  of  paper.  As  Lilly  still  stood  at  tLe 
window,  watching  as  long  as  she  could  see  him,  I 
stole  away  to  open  the  paper.  Then,  for  a  while,  I 
forgot  Lilly,  aye,  forgot  everything,  in  my  great  hap- 
piness. He  loved  me!  On  my  finger  sparkled  the 
beautiful  diamond  —  my  engagement  ring  —  to  be 
worn  on  the  morrow,  'if  I  could  return  his  love,'  he 
said. 

"Quickly  I  hid  my  treasures  away,  his  note, 
tf  *  ring  —  Lilly  was  coming. 


10  Edna's  Sacrifice 

"  She  was  not  yet  strong,  and  soon  tired.  I  helped 
her  to  get  off  her  clothes,  and  as  she  kissed  me  good- 
night, she  said: 

"  '  I  wish  we  had  a  picture  of  him  —  don't  you?' 

"  'Who,  dear?'  I  asked. 

"'My  doctor!  Who  else?  You  tease.  You  knew 
well  enough,'  she  answered,  as  she  nestled  her  pretty 
head  closer  to  mine. 

"Soon  she  was  sleeping  and  dreaming  of  him. 
Sweet  dreams  at  first  I  knew  they  were ;  for  soft  smiles 
flitted  over  her  face. 

"  I  could  not  sleep.  A  great  fear  stole  in  upon  my 
happiness.  Did  not  Lilly  love  him  too?  How  would 
she  receive  the  news  which  soon  must  reach  her? 
Was  her  love  such  as  mine  ?  Such  as  is  given  to  but 
one  alone?  Or  only  as  a  brother  did  she  love  him? 
I  must  know  how  it  was.  Heaven  grant  that  joy  for 
one  would  not  bring  sorrow  to  the  other,  I  prayed. 
I  had  not  long  to  wait.  Her  dreams  became  troubled. 
Her  lips  quivered  and  trembled,  and  then  with  a  cry 
of  agony  she  started  up. 

'Gone,  gone,  gone!'  she  sobbed. 

"  It  was  many  minutes  ere  I  succeeded  in  calming 
and  making  her  understand  'twas  but  a  dream. 

"  'Oh,  but  so  real,  so  dreadfully  real.  I  thought 
he  did  not  care  for  me.  That  he  had  gone  and  left  me, 
and  they  told  me  he  was  married ! ' 

"TeHing  this,  she  began  to  sob  again. 

"  'Lilly,  dear,  tell  me  truly  —  tell  your  sister, 
your  very  best  friend  —  how  it  is  you  love  your  doc- 
tor?' I  asked. 

"  'How?'  she  returned.  'Oh,  Edna,  more  than 
all  the  world!  He  is  all  that  I  have  lost  and  more; 


Edna's  Sacrifice  It 

and  if  he  should  die,  or  I  should  lose  him,  I  would  aot 
wish  to  live.  I  could  not  live.  He  loves  me  a  little, 
does  he  not,  Edna?' 

"  I  could  not  reply.  Just  then  there  was  a  terrible 
struggle  going  on  in  my  heart.  That  must  be  ended, 
the  victory  won  ere  I  could  speak.  She  waited  for  my 
answer  and  then  said,  eagerly: 

"  'Oh,  speak,  do!    What  are  you  thinking  about?' 

"  Pressing  back  the  sigh  —  back  and  far  down  into 
the  poor  heart  —  I  gave  her  the  sweet,  and  kept  the 
bitter  part,  when  I  could  answer. 

"  '  Yes,  dear,  I  do  think  he  loves  you  a  little  now, 
and  will,  by-and-by,  love  you  dearly.  God  grant  he 
may!' 

"  'Oh,  you  darling  Edna!  You  have  made  me  so 
happy!'  she  cried,  kissing  me,  and  still  caressing  me 
she  fell  asleep. 

"Next  morning  I  enclosed  the  ring,  with  only 
these  words: 

"  'Forgive  if  I  cause  you  sorrow,  and  believe  me 
your  true  friend.  I  return  the  ring  that  I  am  not 
free  to  accept.' 

"I  intended  that  my  reply  should  mislead  him, 
when  I  wrote  that  I  was  not  free,  and  thus  to  crush 
any  hope  that  might  linger  in  his  heart.  While  at 
breakfast  that  morning,  we  received  a  telegram  that 
grandma  was  extremely  ill,  and  wanted  me.  Thus, 
fate  seemed  to  forward  my  plans.  I  had  thought  to 
go  away  for  a  while.  I  told  mother  all.  How  her 
dear  heart  ached  for  me!  Yet  she  dared  not  say 
aught  against  my  decision.  She  took  charge  of  the 
aote  for  the  doctor,  and  by  noon  I  was  on  my  journey, 
i'wo  years  passed  ere  I  returned  home.  Mother  wrote 


12  Edna's  Sacrifice 

me  "but  Kttle  news  of  either  Lilly  or  her  docto*  rter 
the  first  letter,  telling  that  my  note  was  a  severe 
shock  and  great  disappointment.  Three  or  four 
months  elapsed  before  grandma  was  strong  enough 
for  me  to  leave  her.  An  opportunity  at  that  time  pre- 
sented for  my  going  to  Europe.  I  wanted  such  an 
entire  change,  and  gladly  accepted.  Frequently  came 
letters  from  Lilly.  For  many  months  they  were  filled 
with  doubts  and  anxiety;  but  after  a  while  came  hap- 
pier and  shorter  ones.  Ah,  she  had  only  time  to  be 
with  him,  and  to  think  in  his  absence  of  his  coming 
again. 

"When  I  was  beginning  to  tire  of  all  the  wonders 
and  grandeur  of  the  old  world,  and  nothing  would 
still  the  longing  for  home,  the  tidings  came  they  were 
married,  Lilly  and  her  doctor,  and  gone  to  his  western 
home  to  take  charge  of  the  patients  of  his  uncle,  who 
had  retired  from  practice.  Then  I  hastened  back, 
and  ever  since,  dear  girls,  I  have  been  contented,  find- 
ing much  happiness  in  trying  to  contribute  to  that  of 
those  so  dear.  Now,  little  Edna,  you  have  my  only 
love-story,  its  beginning  and  ending." 

"But,  aunty,  do  tell  me  his  name,"  I  said.  "In- 
deed, it  is  not  merely  idle  curiosity.  I  just  feel  as  if 
I  must  know  it  —  that  it  is  for  something  very  im- 
portant. Now  you  need  not  smile.  I'm  very  ear- 
nest, and  I  shall  not  sleep  until  I  know.  I  really  felt 
a  presentiment  that  if  I  knew  his  name  it  might  in 
some  way  affect  the  conclusion  of  the  story." 

"Well,  my  child,  I  may  as  well  tell  }rou.  Dr.  Gra- 
ham it  was  —  Percy  Graham,"  Aunt  Edna  answered, 
low. 


Edna's  Sacrifice  13 

Ah!  did  I  not  tell  you?  It  was  ncn  curiosity, 
aunty  mine.  While  you  were  away  last  win- 
ter, papa  received  a  paper  from  St.  Louis;  he  handed 
it  to  me,  pointing  to  an  announcement.  But  I  will 
run  get  it.  He  told  me  to  show  it  to  you,  and  I  for- 
get. I  did  not  dream  of  all  this." 

From  my  scrap-book  I  brought  the  slip,  and  Aunt 
Edna  read: 

"  DIED. — Suddenly,  of  heart  disease,  on  the  merning 
of  the  1 5th,  Lilly,  wife  of  Doctor  Percy  Graham,  in 
the  34th  year  of  her  age." 

Aunt  Edna  remained  holding  the  paper,  without 
speaking,  for  some  minutes;  then,  handing  it  back  to 
me,  she  said,  softly,  as  if  talking  to  her  friend: 

"Dear  Lilly!  Thank  heaven,  I  gave  to  you  the 
best  I  had  to  give,  and  caused  you  naught  but  happi- 
ness. God  is  merciful!  Had  he  been  taken,  and  you 
left,  how  could  we  have  comforted  you?"  And  then, 
turning  to  me,  she  said:  "Nearly  a  year  it  is  since 
Lilly  went  to  heaven.  'TJ.s  strange  I  have  not  heard 
of  this." 

"  'Tis  strange  from  him  you  have  not  heard,"  I 
thought;  "and  stranger  still  'twill  be  if  he  comes  net 
when  the  year  is  over.  For  surely  he  must  know  that 
you  are  free — "  But  I  kept  my  thoughts,  and  soon 
after  kissed  aunty  goodnight. 

One  month  passed,  and  the  year  was  out.  And 
somebody  was  in  our  parlor,  making  arrangements  to 
carry  away  Aunt  Edna.  I  knew  it  was  he,  when  he 
met  me  at  the  hall  door,  and  said: 

"Edna  —  Miss  Linden!  can  it  be?" 

"  Yes  and  no,  sir  —  both  —  Edna  Linden ;  but,  Dee- 
tor  Graham,  not  your  Edna.  You  will  find  her  in  tb? 


14  Edna's  Sacrifice 

parlor,'*  I  answered,  saucily,  glad  and  sorry,  both,  at 
his  coming. 

Ah,  she  welcomed  him  with  profound  joy,  I  know. 
He  knew  all;  papa  had  told  him.  And  if  he  loved  thf 
beautiful  girl,  he  then  worshipped  that  noble  woman. 

"7'hank  God!  Mine  at  last!"  I  heard  him  say, 
with  fervent  joy,  as  I  passed  the  door,  an  hour  after. 

How  beautiful  she  was,  when,  a  few  weeks  after, 
she  became  his  very  own.  I  stood  beside  her  and 
drew  off  her  glove.  How  happy  he  looked  as  he 
placed  the  heavy  gold  circlet  on  her  finger!  How- 
proudly  he  bore  her  down  the  crowded  church  aisle! 

Ah,  little  Lilly  was  no  doubt  his  rl^ar  and  cherished 
wife.  But  this  one  'twas  plain  to  see,  was  the  ot)e 
love  of  his  life. 


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SOUTHWORTH 

AN     ATTRACTIVE     LIST     OF     THE 
WORKS  OF  THIS  POPULAR  AUTHOR 


THE  first  eighteen  titles  with  brackets  are  books 
with  sequels,  "Victor's  Triumph,"  being  a  sequel 
to  "Beautiful  Fiend,"  etc.    They  are  all  printed 
from  large,  clear  type  on  a  superior  quality  of  flexible 
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f  1    Beautiful  Fiend,  A  26    Discarded  Daughter,  The 

I  2    Victor's  Triumph  27    Doom  of  Deville,  The 

\  A  r£ide>Srnte-,,  28  Eudora 

I  4  Changed  Brides 

(  ,  _  29  Fatal  Secret,  A 

f  5  Cruel  as  the  Grave 

1  6  Tried  for  Her  Life  30  Fortune  Seeker 

f  7  Fair  Play  31  Gypsy's  Prophecy 

t  8  How  He  Won  Her  32  Haunted  Homestead 

f  9  Family  Doom  33  India;  or,  The  Pearl  of 

1 10  Maiden  Widow  Pearl  River 

f  11  Hidden  Hand,  The  34  Lady  of  the  Isle,  The 

Capitola's  Peril  35  Lost  Heiress,  The 

•fjf  I81!?1!?6!  36  Love's  Labor  Won 

(.  14  Self  Raised  ,     _. 

, ,_  .      .  „  .      ,T.  ....  37  Missing  Bride,  The 

f  15  Lost  Heir  of  Lmhthgow  „  x. 

U6  Noble  Lord,  A  38  Mother-m-Law 

f  17  Unknown  39  Prince  of  Darkness,  aad 

1 18  Mystery  of  Raven  Rocks  Artist  s  Love 

19  Bridal  Eve,  The  40  Retribution 

20  Bride's  Dowry,  The  41  Three  Beauties,  Th« 

21  Bride  of  Llewellyn,  The  42  Three  Sisters,  The 

22  Broken  Engagement,  The  43  Two  Sisters,  The 

23  Christmas  Guest,  The  ^  Vivian 

24  Curse  of  Clifton  45  Widow's  Son 

25  Deserted  Wife,  The  46  Wife's  Victory 

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LOVE  LETTERS 

With  Directions  How  To  Write  Them 

By  INGOLDSBT  NORTH. 

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1  Bad  Little  Hannah  18  Lit  tie    Mother    to 

2  Bunch  of  Cherries,  A  Others 

4  Children's  Pilgrimage  20  Merry    Girls    of 

5  Daddy's  Girl  England 

6  Deb  and  the  Duchess  21  Miss  Nonentity 

7  Francis    Kane's  22  Modern   Tomboy,   A 

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12  Girls     of    the    True  A 

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14  Heart  of  Gold,  The  31   Wild  Kitty 

1 5  Honorable  Miss,  The  32  World  of  Girls 

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M.  A.  DONOHUE  &  COMPANY 

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limit      I 


